of  Celia 

POEMS.     Appledore  Edition. 
STORIES  AND  POEMS  FOR  CHILDREN.  With 
frontispiece.     Also  in  Riverside  School  Library. 
AMONG  THE  ISLES  OF  SHOALS.  Illustrated. 
AN    ISLAND   GARDEN. 

LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER.     With  three 
portraits. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


LETTERS  OF  CELIA  THAXTER 


LETTERS   OF 
CELIA   THAXTER 


EDITED    BY  HER  FRIENDS 
A.  F.  AND   R.  L. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

(Cbe  ft  ifcerside  press  Cambribge 


COPYRIGHT,    1895,   BY   ROLAND  THAXTER 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


TWELFTH    IMPRESSION 


NOTE 

THIS  volume,  made  up  of  extracts  from  the 
letters  of  Celia  Thaxter,  will  serve,  we  trust, 
to  give  an  idea,  even  to  those  who  never  knew 
her,  of  her  nature  and  development. 

Except  for  a  light  from  within,  which  irradi 
ated  the  world  she  lived  in,  her  life  could 
easily  have  worn  the  sad-colored  hues  of  ordi 
nary  mortality.  But  the  radiance  of  her  nature 
was  like  an  ever-rising  sun  of  affection,  con 
stantly  warming  the  hearts  whereon  it  shone ; 
and  where  was  the  pilgrim  who  did  not  gladly 
open  his  window  to  that  East  ? 


402220 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTBATIONS 


PORTRAIT  OF    MRS.    THAXTER,   IN    HER    GARDEN, 
taken  about  1890       .         .        .         Frontispiece 
PROFILE  PORTRAIT,  taken  about  1855        ...      12 
MRS.    THAXTER  AT    HER    PAINTING    TABLE,  taken 

about  1892 1 


CELIA   THAXTER 

BORN    JUNE,    1835;    DIED    AUGUST,    1894 

IF  it  were  ever  intended  that  a  desolate 
island  in  the  deep  sea  should  be  inhabited  by 
one  solitary  family,  then  indeed  Celia  Thaxter 
was  the  fitting  daughter  of  such  a  house. 

In  her  history  of  the  group  of  islands,  which 
she  calls  "  Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals,"  she  por 
trays,  in  a  prose  which  for  beauty  and  wealth 
of  diction  has  few  rivals,  the  unfolding  of  her 
own  nature  under  influences  of  sky  and  sea, 
and  solitude  and  untrammeled  freedom,  such 
as  have  been  almost  unknown  to  civilized  hu 
manity  in  any  age  of  the  world.  She  speaks 
also  of  the  effect  produced,  as  she  fancied,  upon 
the  minds  of  men  by  the  eternal  sound  of  the 
sea ;  a  tendency  to  wear  away  the  edge  of 
human  thought  and  perception.  But  this  was 
far  from  being  the  case  with  regard  to  herself. 
Her  eyesight  was  keener,  her  speech  more 
distinct,  the  lines  of  her  thoughts  more  clearly 
denned,  her  verse  more  strongly  marked  in  its 


IV  CELIA   THAXTER 

form,  and  the  accuracy  of  her  memory  more 
to  be  relied  upon,  than  was  the  case  with  al 
most  any  one  of  her  contemporaries.  Her 
painting,  too,  upon  porcelain  possessed  the 
same  character.  Her  knowledge  of  the  flowers, 
and  especially  of  the  seaweeds,  with  which  she 
decorated  it,  was  so  exact  that  she  did  not  re 
quire  the  originals  before  her  vision.  They 
were  painted  upon  her  mind's  eye,  where  every 
filament  and  every  shade  seemed  to  be  recorded. 
These  " green  growing  things"  had  been  the 
beloved  companions  of  her  childhood,  as  they 
continued  to  be  of  her  womanhood,  and  even 
to  reproduce  their  forms  in  painting  was  a  de 
light  to  her.  The  written  descriptions  of  nat 
ural  objects  gave  her  history  a  place  among 
the  pages  which  possess  a  perennial  existence. 
While  White's  "  Selborne,"  and  the  pictures  of 
Bewick,  and  Thoreau's  "Walden,"  and  the 
"  Autobiography  of  Richard  Jefferies  "  endure, 
so  long  will  "  Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals  "  hold 
its  place  with  all  lovers  of  nature.  She  says  in 
one  place  :  "  All  the  pictures  over  which  I  dream 
are  set  in  this  framework  of  the  sea,  that 
sparkled  and  sang,  or  frowned  and  threatened, 
in  the  ages  that  are  gone  as  it  does  to-day. " 


CELIA   THAXTER  V 

The  solitude  of  Celia  Thaxter's  childhood, 
which  was  not  solitude,  surrounded  as  she  was 
with  the  love  of  a  father  and  a  mother  all  ten 
derness,  and  brothers  dear  to  her  as  her  own 
life,  developed  in  the  child  strange  faculties. 
She  was  five  years  old  when  the  family  left 
Portsmouth,  —  old  enough,  given  her  inborn 
power  of  enjoyment  of  nature,  to  delight  in 
the  free  air  and  the  wonderful  sights  around 
her. 

Her  father  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  awful 
energy  of  will.  Some  disappointment  in  his 
hope  of  a  public  career,  it  has  been  said,  de 
cided  him  to  take  the  step  of  withdrawing  him 
self  forever  from  the  world  of  the  mainland, 
and  this  attitude  he  appears  to  have  sustained 
unflinchingly  to  the  end.  Her  mother,  with  a 
heart  stayed  as  unflinchingly  upon  love  and 
obedience,  seems  to  have  followed  him  without 
a  murmur,  leaving  every  dear  association  of  the 
past  as  though  it  had  not  been.  From  this 
moment  she  became,  not  the  slave,  but  the 
queen  of  her  affections,  and  when  she  died,  in 
1877,  the  sun  appeared  to  set  upon  her  daugh 
ter's  life.  On  the  morning  after  Mrs.  Thaxter's 
sudden  death,  seventeen  years  later,  a  friend 


Tl  CELIA   THAXTER 

asked  her  eldest  son  where  his  mother  was, 
with  the  intent  to  discover  if  she  had  been  well 
enough  to  leave  her  room.  "  Oh,"  he  replied, 
"  her  mother  came  in  the  night  and  took  her 
away."  This  reply  showed  how  deeply  all  who 
were  near  to  Celia  Thaxter  were  impressed  with 
the  fact  that  to  see  her  mother  again  was  one  of 
the  deepest  desires  of  her  heart. 

The  development  wrought  in  her  eager  char 
acter  by  those  early  days  of  exceptional  expe 
rience  gives  a  new  sense  of  what  our  poor 
humanity  may  achieve,  left  face  to  face  with  the 
vast  powers  of  nature. 

In  speaking  of  the  energy  of  Samuel  Haley, 
one  of  the  early  settlers  of  the  islands,  she  says 
he  learned  to  live  as  independently  as  possi 
ble  of  his  fellow-men  ;  "  for  that  is  one  of  the 
first  things  a  settler  on  the  Isles  of  Shoals  finds 
it  necessary  to  learn."  Her  own  lesson  was 
learned  perfectly.  The  sunrise  was  as  familiar 
to  her  eyes  as  the  sunset,  and  early  and  late 
the  activity  of  her  mind  was  rivaled  by  the 
ceaseless  industry  of  her  hands. 

Appledore  was  too  far  away  in  winter  from 
the  village  at  Star  Island  for  any  regular  or 
frequent  communication  between  them.  Even 


CELIA  THAXTER  vii 

BO  late  as  in  the  month  of  May  she  records 
watching  a  little  fleet  beating  up  for  shelter 
under  the  lee  of  Appledore  to  ride  out  a  storm. 
"  They  were  in  continual  peril.  ...  It  was 
not  pleasant  to  watch  them  as  the  early  twi 
light  shut  down  over  the  vast  weltering  deso 
lation  of  the  sea,  to  see  the  slender  masts  wav 
ing  helplessly  from  one  side  to  another.  .  .  . 
Some  of  the  men  had  wives  and  children  watch 
ing  them  from  lighted  windows  at  Star.  What 
a  fearful  night  for  them  !  They  could  not  tell 
from  hour  to  hour,  through  the  thick  darkness, 
if  yet  the  cables  held ;  they  could  not  see  till 
daybreak  whether  the  sea  had  swallowed  up 
their  treasures.  I  wonder  the  wives  were  not 
white-haired  when  the  sun  rose  and  showed 
them  those  little  specks  yet  rolling  in  the  break 
ers  ! "  How  clearly  these  scenes  were  photo 
graphed  on  the  sensitive  plate  of  her  mind  ! 
She  never  forgot  nor  really  lost  sight  of  her 
island  people.  Her  sympathy  drew  them  to 
her  as  if  they  were  her  own,  and  the  little 
colony  of  Norwegians  was  always  especially  dear 
to  her.  "  How  pathetic,"  she  says,  "  the  gath 
ering  of  women  on  the  headlands,  when  out  of 
the  sky  swept  the  squall  that  sent  the  smalJ 


Viii  CELIA   THAXTER 

boat  staggering  before  it,  and  blinded  the  eyes, 
already  drowned  in  tears,  with  sudden  rain  that 
hid  sky  and  sea  and  boats  from  their  eager 
gaze  ! » 

What  she  was,  what  her  sympathy  was,  to 
those  people,  no  one  can  ever  quite  express. 
The  deep  devotion  of  their  service  to  her 
brothers  and  to  herself,  through  the  long  soli 
tude  of  winter  and  the  storm  of  summer  vis 
itors,  alone  could  testify.  Such  service  cannot 
be  bought :  it  is  the  devotion  bom  of  affection 
and  gratitude  and  admiration.  Speaking  of  one 
of  the  young  women  who  grew  up  under  her 
eye,  she  often  said  :  "  What  could  I  do  in  this 
world  without  Mina  Berntsen  ?  I  hope  she  will 
be  with  me  when  I  die."  And  there  indeed, 
at  the  last,  was  Mina,  to  receive  the  latest 
word  and  to  perform  the  few  sad  offices. 

To  tell  of  the  services  Mrs.  Thaxter  ren 
dered  to  some  of  the  more  helpless  people 
about  her,  in  the  dark  season,  when  no  assist 
ance  from  the  mainland  could  be  hoped  for, 
would  make  a  long  and  noble  story  in  itself. 
Her  good  sense  made  her  an  excellent  doctor ; 
the  remedies  she  understood  she  was  always 
on  hand  to  apply  at  the  right  moment.  Some- 


CELIA  THAXTER  IX 

times  she  was  unexpectedly  called  to  assist  in 
the  birth  of  a  child,  when  knowledge  and 
strength  she  was  hardly  aware  of  seemed  to  be 
suddenly  developed.  But  the  truth  was  she 
could  do  almost  anything ;  and  only  those  who 
knew  her  in  these  humbler  human  relations 
could  understand  how  joyous  she  was  in  the 
exercise  of  her  duties,  or  how  well  able  to  per 
form  them.  Writing  to  Mina  from  the  Shoals 
once  in  March,  she  says  :  "  This  is  the  time  to 
be  here ;  this  is  what  I  enjoy !  To  wear  my 
old  clothes  every  day,  grub  in  the  ground,  dig 
dandelions  and  eat  them  too,  plant  my  seeds 
and  watch  them,  fly  on  the  tricycle,  row  in  a 
boat,  get  into  my  dressing-gown  right  after 
tea  and  make  lovely  rag  rugs  all  the  evening, 
and  nobody  to  disturb  us,  —  this  is  fun  !  "  In 
the  house  and  out  of  it  she  was  capable  of 
everything.  How  beautiful  her  skill  was  as  a 
dressmaker,  the  exquisite  lines  in  her  own  black 
or  gray  or  white  dresses  testified  to  every  one 
who  ever  saw  her.  She  never  wore  any  other 
colors,  nor  was  anything  like  "  trimming  "  evei 
seen  about  her ;  there  were  only  the  fine,  free 
outlines,  and  a  white  handkerchief  folded  care 
fully  about  her  neck  and  shoulders. 


X  CELIA  THAXTER 

In  her  young  days  it  was  the  same,  with  a 
difference !  She  was  slighter  in  figure  then, 
and  overflowing  with  laughter,  the  really  beau 
tiful  but  noisy  laughter  which  died  away  as 
the  repose  of  manner  of  later  years  fell  upon 
her.  I  can  remember  her  as  I  first  saw  her, 
with  the  sea  -  shells  which  she  always  wore 
then  around  her  neck  and  wrists,  and  a  gray 
poplin  dress  defining  her  lovely  form.  She 
talked  simply  and  fearlessly,  while  her  keen 
eyes  took  in  everything  around  her  ;  she  paid 
the  tribute  of  her  instantaneous  laughter  to  the 
wit  of  others,  —  never  too  eager  to  speak,  and 
never  unwilling.  Her  sense  of  beauty,  not 
vanity,  caused  her  to  make  the  most  of  the 
good  physical  points  she  possessed  ;  therefore, 
although  she  grew  old  early,  the  same  general 
features  of  her  appearance  were  preserved.  She 
was  almost  too  well  known  even  to  strangers, 
in  these  later  years  at  the  Shoals,  to  make  it 
worth  while  to  describe  the  white  hair  carefully 
put  up  to  preserve  the  shape  of  the  head,  and 
the  small  silver  crescent  which  she  wore  above 
her  forehead  ;  but  her  manner  had  become  very 
quiet  and  tender,  more  and  more  affectionate  to 
her  friends,  and  appreciative  of  all  men.  One 


CELIA   THAXTER  XI 

of  those  who  knew  her  latterly  wrote  me: 
"  Many  of  her  letters  show  her  boundless  sym 
pathy,  her  keen  appreciation  of  the  best  in  those 
whom  she  loved,  and  her  wonderful  growth  in 
beauty  and  roundness  of  character.  And  how 
delightful  her  enthusiasms  were !  As  pure  and 
clear  as  those  of  a  child  !  She  was  utterly  un 
like  any  one  in  the  world,  so  that  few  people 
really  understood  her.  But  it  seems  to  me  that 
her  trials  softened  and  mellowed  her,  until  she 
became  like  one  of  her  own  beautiful  flowers, 
perfect  in  her  full  development ;  then  in  a  night 
the  petals  fell,  and  she  was  gone.7' 

The  capabilities  which  were  developed  in  her 
by  the  necessities  of  the  situation,  during  her 
life  at  the  Shoals  in  winter,  were  more  various 
and  remarkable  than  can  be  fitly  told.  The 
glimpses  which  we  get  in  her  letters  of  the 
many  occupations  show  what  energy  she  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  difficulties  of  the  place. 

In  "  Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals "  she  says  : 
"After  winter  has  fairly  set  in,  the  lonely 
dwellers  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals  find  life  quite  as 
much  as  they  can  manage,  being  so  entirely 
thrown  upon  their  own  resources  that  it  requires 
all  the  philosophy  at  their  disposal  to  answer 


Xll  CELIA   THAXTER 

the  demand.  One  goes  to  sleep  in  the  muffled 
roar  of  the  storm,  and  wakes  to  find  it  still 
raging  with  senseless  fury.'7 

It  was  not  extraordinary  that  the  joy  of  hu 
man  intercourse,  after  such  estrangement,  be 
came  a  rapture  to  so  loving  a  nature  as  Celia 
Laighton's ;  nor  that,  very  early,  before  the 
period  of  fully  ripened  womanhood,  she  should 
have  been  borne  away  from  her  island  by  a 
husband,  a  man  of  birth  and  education,  who 
went  as  missionary  to  the  wild  fisher  folk  on 
the  adjacent  island  called  Star. 

The  exuberant  joy  of  her  unformed  maiden 
hood,  with  its  power  of  self-direction,  attracted 
the  shy,  intellectual  student  nature  of  Mr. 
Thaxter.  He  could  not  dream  that  this  care 
less,  happy  creature  possessed  the  strength  and 
sweep  of  wing  which  belonged  to  her  own  sea 
gull.  In  good  hope  of  teaching  and  develop 
ing  her,  of  adding  much  in  which  she  was 
uninstructed  to  the  wisdom  which  the  influences 
of  nature  and  the  natural  affections  had  bred  in 
her,  he  carried  his  wife  to  a  quiet  inland  home, 
where  three  children  w'ere  very  soon  born  to 
them.  Under  the  circumstances,  it  was  not  ex 
traordinary  that  his  ideas  of  education  were 


CELIA   THAXTER  xiii 

not  altogether  successfully  applied  ;  she  required 
more  strength  than  she  could  summon,  more 
adaptability  than  many  a  grown  woman  could 
have  found,  to  face  the  situation,  and  life  be 
came  difficult  and  full  of  problems  to  them 
both.  Their  natures  were  strongly  contrasted, 
but  perhaps  not  too  strongly  to  complement 
each  other,  if  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  as 
a  woman,  and  not  as  a  child.  His  retiring, 
scholarly  nature  and  habits  drew  him  away 
from  the  world ;  her  overflowing,  sun-loving 
being,  like  a  solar  system  in  itself,  reached  out 
on  every  side,  rejoicing  in  all  created  things. 

Her  introduction  to  the  world  of  letters  was 
by  means  of  her  first  poem,  "  Land-Locked,' ' 
which,  by  the  hand  of  a  friend,  was  brought  to 
the  notice  of  James  Kussell  Lowell,  at  that 
time  editor  of  "  The  Atlantic."  He  printed  it 
at  once,  without  exchanging  a  word  with  the 
author.  She  knew  nothing  about  it  until  the 
magazine  was  laid  before  her.  This  recogni 
tion  of  her  talent  was  a  delight  indeed,  and 
it  was  one  of  the  happiest  incidents  in  a  life 
which  was  already  overclouded  with  difficulties 
and  sorrow.  It  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  re 
print  this  poem  here,  because  it  must  assure 


Xlv  CELIA   THAXTER 

every  reader  of  the  pure  poetic  gift  which  was 
in  her.  In  form,  in  movement,  and  in  thought 
it  is  as  beautiful  as  her  latest  work. 

LAND-LOCKED. 

Black  lie  the  hills;  swiftly  doth  daylight  flee; 
And,  catching  gleams  of  sunset's  dj'ing  smile, 
Through  the  dusk  land  for  many  a  changing  mile 

The  river  runneth  softly  to  the  sea. 

O  happy  river,  could  I  follow  thee! 

O  yearning  heart,  that  never  can  be  still! 

O  wistful  eyes,  that  watch  the  steadfast  hill, 
Longing  for  level  line  of  solemn  sea! 

Have  patience;  here  are  flowers  and  songs  of  birds, 
Beauty  and  fragrance,  wealth  of  sound  and  sight, 
All  summer's  glory  thine  from  morn  till  night, 

And  life  too  full  of  joy  for  uttered  words. 

Neither  am  I  ungrateful ;  but  I  dream 
Deliciously  how  twilight  falls  to-night 
Over  the  glimmering  water,  how  the  light 

Dies  blissfully  away,  until  I  seem 

To  feel  the  wind,  sea-scented,  on  my  cheek, 
To  catch  the  sound  of  dusky,  flapping  sail, 
And  dip  of  oars,  and  voices  on  the  gale 

Afar  off,  calling  low,  —  my  name  they  speak! 

0  Earth !  thy  summer  song  of  joy  may  soar 
Ringing  to  heaven  in  triumph.    I  but  crave 
The  sad,  caressing  murmur  of  the  wave 

That  breaks  in  tender  music  on  the  shore. 

With  the  growth  of  Mrs.  Thaxter's  children 


CELIA   THAXTER  XV 

and  the  death  of  her  father,  the  love  and  duty 
she  owed  her  mother  caused  her  to  return  in 
the  winter  to  the  Shoals,  although  a  portion  of 
the  summer  was  passed  there  as  well. 

But  she  had  already  tasted  of  the  tree  of 
knowledge,  and  the  world  outside  beckoned  to 
her  with  as  fascinating  a  face  as  it  ever  pre 
sented  to  any  human  creature.  It  was  during 
one  of  these  returning  visits  to  the  Shoals  that 
much  of  the  delightful  book  from  which  I  have 
quoted  was  written ;  a  period  when  she  had 
already  learned  something  of  the  charms  of 
society,  —  sufficient  to  accentuate  her  apprecia 
tion  of  her  own  past,  and  to  rejoice  in  what  n 
larger  life  now  held  in  store  for  her. 

Lectures,  operas,  concerts,  theatres,  pictures, 
music  above  all,  —  what  were  they  not  to  her ! 
Did  artists  ever  before  find  such  an  eye  and  such 
an  ear  ?  She  brought  to  them  a  spirit  prepared 
for  harmony,  but  utterly  ignorant  of  the  science 
of  painting  or  music  until  the  light  of  art  sud 
denly  broke  upon  her  womanhood.  Of  what 
this  new  world  was  to  her  we  find  some  hint,  of 
course,  in  her  letters ;  but  no  human  lips,  not 
even  her  own  exuberant  power  of  expression, 
could  ever  say  how  her  existence  was  enriched 


XVI  CELIA  THAXTER 

and  made  beautiful  through  music.  Artists 
who  sang  to  her,  or  those  who  rehearsed  the 
finest  music  on  the  piano  or  violin  or  flute,  or 
those  who  brought  their  pictures  and  put  them 
before  her  while  she  listened,  — they  alone,  in  a 
measure,  understood  what  these  things  signified, 
and  how  she  was  lifted  quite  away  by  them 
from  the  ordinary  level  of  life.  They  were 
inspired  to  do  for  her  what  they  could  seldom 
do  for  any  other  creature,  and  her  generous 
response,  overflowing,  almost  extravagant  in 
expression,  was  never  half  enough  to  begin  to 
tell  the  new  life  they  brought  to  her. 

Mrs.  Thaxter  found  herself,  as  the  years  went 
on,  the  centre  of  a  company  who  rather  selected 
themselves  than  were  selected  from  the  vast 
number  of  persons  who  frequented  her  brothers' 
"  house  of  entertainment "  at  the  islands.  Her 
"  parlor,"  as  it  was  called,  was  a  milieu  quite 
as  interesting  as  any  of  the  " salons"  of  the 
past.  Her  pronounced  individuality  forbade 
the  intrusion  even  of  a  fancy  of  comparison 
with  anything  else,  and  equally  forbade  the 
possibility  of  rivalry.  There  was  only  one 
thought  in  the  mind  of  the  frequenters  of  her 
parlor,  —  that  of  gratitude  for  the  pleasure  and 


CELIA  THAXTER  XV11 

opportunity  she  gave  them,  and  a  genuine  wish 
to  please  her  and  to  become  her  friends.  She  pos 
sessed  the  keen  instincts  of  a  child  with  regard 
to  people.  If  they  were  unlovable  to  her,  if 
they  were  for  any  reason  unsympathetic,  no 
thing  could  bring  her  to  overcome  her  dislike. 
She  was  in  this  particular  more  like  some  wild 
thing  than  a  creature  of  the  nineteenth  century ; 
indeed,  one  of  her  marked  traits  was  a  curi 
ous  intractability  of  nature.  I  believe  that  no 
worldly  motive  ever  influenced  her  relation  with 
any  human  creature.  Of  course  these  native 
qualities  made  her  more  ardently  devoted  in  her 
friendships ;  but  it  went  hardly  with  her  to  in 
gratiate  those  persons  for  whom  she  felt  a  natu 
ral  repulsion,  or  even  sometimes  to  be  gentle 
with  them.  Later  in  life  she  learned  to  call 
no  man  "  common  or  unclean  ; "  but  coming 
into  the  world,  as  she  did,  full  grown,  like 
Minerva  in  the  legend,  with  keen  eyes,  and 
every  sense  alive  to  discern  pretension,  untruth, 
ungodliness  in  guise  of  the  church,  and  all  the 
uncleanness  of  the  earth,  these  things  were  as 
much  a  surprise  to  her  as  it  was,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  find  the  wondrous  world  of  art  and 
the  lives  of  the  saints.  Perhaps  no  large  social 


XVlll  CELIA   THAXTER 

success  was  ever  achieved  upon  such  unworldly 
conditions  ;  she  swung  as  free  as  possible  of 
the  world  of  society  and  its  opinions,  forming  a 
centre  of  her  own,  built  up  on  the  sure  founda 
tions  of  love  and  loyalty.  She  saw  as  much 
as  any  woman  of  the  time  of  large  numbers  of 
people,  and  she  was  able  to  give  them  the  best 
kind  of  social  enjoyment,  —  music,  pictures, 
poetry,  and  conversation  ;  the  latter  sometimes 
poor  and  sometimes  good,  according  to  the  drift 
which  swept  through  her  beautiful  room.  Mrs. 
Thaxter  was  generous  in  giving  invitations  to 
her  parlor,  but  to  its  frequenters  she  said,  "  If 
people  do  not  enjoy  what  they  find,  they  must 
go  their  way ;  my  work  and  the  music  will  not 
cease."  The  study  of  nature  and  art  was  al 
ways  going  forward  either  on  or  around  her 
work-table.  The  keynote  of  conversation  was 
struck  there  for  those  who  were  able  to  hear  it. 
We  were  reminded  of  William  Blake's  verse  :  — • 

"I give  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string, 

Only  wind  it  into  a  ball, 
It  will  lead  you  in  at  Heaven's  gate, 
Built  in  Jerusalem  wall." 

Here  it  was  that  Whittier  could  be  heard  at  his 
best,  sympathetic,  stimulating,  uplifting,  as  he 


CELIA  THAXTER  xix 

alone  could  be,  and  yet  as  he,  with  his  Quaker 
training  to  silence,  was  so  seldom  moved  to 
prove  himself.  Here  he  would  sit  near  her 
hour  after  hour ;  sometimes  mending  her  seolian 
harp  while  they  talked  together,  sometimes  read 
ing  aloud  to  the  assembled  company. 

Her  gratitude  to  the  men  and  women  who 
brought  music  to  her  door  knew  no  limit ;  it 
was  strong,  deep,  and  unforgetting.  "  What 
can  I  ever  do  for  them,"  she  would  say,  "  when 
I  remember  the  joy  they  bring  me !  " 

"  The  dignity  of  labor  "  is  a  phrase  we  have 
often  heard  repeated  in  modern  life,  but  it  was 
one  unnecessary  to  be  spoken  by  Celia  Thaxter. 
It  may  easily  be  said  of  her  that  one  of  the 
finest  lessons  she  unconsciously  taught  was  not 
only  the  value  of  labor,  but  the  joy  of  doing 
things  well.  The  necessities  of  her  position, 
as  I  have  already  indicated,  demanded  a  great 
deal,  but  she  responded  to  the  need  with  a  readi 
ness  and  generosity  great  enough  to  extort  admi 
ration  from  those  who  knew  her.  How  much 
she  contributed  to  the  comfort  of  the  lives  of 
those  she  loved  at  the  Shoals  we  have  endeav 
ored  to  show ;  how  beautiful  her  garden  was 
there,  in  the  summer,  all  the  world  could  see  j 


XX  CELIA  THAXTEK 

but  at  one  period  there  was  also  a  farm  at  Kittery 
Point,  to  be  made  beautiful  and  comfortable  by 
her  industry,  where  one  of  her  sons  still  lives ; 
and  a  pied  a  terre  in  Boston  or  in  Portsmouth, 
whither  she  came  in  the  winter  with  her  eldest 
son,  who  was  especially  dependent  upon  her 
love  and  care  :  and  all  these  changes  demanded 
much  of  her  time  and  strength. 

She  was  certainly  one  of  the  busiest  women 
in  the  world.  Writing  from  Kittery  Point, 
September  6,  1880,  she  says :  "  It  is  divinely 
lovely  here,  and  the  house  is  charming.  I  have 
brought  a  servant  over  from  the  hotel,  and  it  is 
a  blessing  to  be  able  to  make  them  all  comforta 
ble  ;  to  set  them  down  in  the  charming  dining- 
room  overlooking  the  smooth,  curved  crescent 
of  sandy  beach,  with  the  long  rollers  breaking 
white,  and  the  Shoals  looming  on  the  far  sea- 
line.  .  .  .  But  oh,  how  tired  we  all  get !  I 
shall  be  quite  ready  for  my  rest !  Your  weari 
est,  loving  C.  T." 

This  note  gives  a  picture  of  her  life.  She 
was  always  helping  to  make  a  bright  spot  around 
her ;  to  give  of  herself  in  some  way.  There  is 
a  bit  in  her  book  which  illustrates  this  instinct. 
The  incident  occurred  during  a  long,  dreary 


CELIA   THAXTER  xxi 

storm  at  the  Shoals.  Two  men  had  come  in 
a  boat,  asking  for  help.  "  A  little  child  had 
died  at  Star  Island,  and  they  could  not  sail  to 
the  mainland,  and  had  no  means  to  construct  a 
coffin  among  themselves.  All  day  I  watched 
the  making  of  that  little  chrysalis;  and  at 
night  the  last  nail  was  driven  in,  and  it  lay 
across  a  bench,  in  the  midst  of  the  litter  of  the 
workshop,  and  a  curious  stillness  seemed  to  ema 
nate  from  the  senseless  boards.  I  went  back  k 
the  house  and  gathered  a  handful  of  scarlet  ge 
ranium,  and  returned  with  it  through  the  rain. 
The  brilliant  blossoms  were  sprinkled  with  glit 
tering  drops.  I  laid  them  in  the  little  coffin, 
while  the  wind  wailed  so  sorrowfully  outside, 
and  the  rain  poured  against  the  windows.  Two 
men  came  through  the  mist  and  storm,  and  one 
swung  the  light  little  shell  to  his  shoulder,  and 
they  carried  it  away,  and  the  gathering  darkness 
shut  down  and  hid  them  as  they  tossed  among 
the  waves.  I  never  saw  the  little  girl,  but 
where  they  buried  her  I  know  ;  the  lighthouse 
shines  close  by,  and  every  night  the  quiet,  con 
stant  ray  steals  to  her  grave  and  softly  touches 
it,  as  if  to  say,  with  a  caress,  '  Sleep  well !  Be 
thankful  you  are  spared  so  much  that  I  see 


XXll  CELIA  THAXTER 

humanity  endure,  fixed  here  forever  where  I 
stand/  » 

We  have  seen  the  profound  love  she  felt  for, 
and  the  companionship  she  found  in,  nature  and 
natural  objects ;  but  combined  with  these  senti 
ments,  or  developed  simply  by  her  love  to  speak 
more  directly,  was  a  very  uncommon  power  of 
observation.  This  power  grew  day  by  day,  and 
the  delightful  correspondence  which  existed  be 
tween  Bradford  Torrey  and  herself,  although 
they  had  never  met  face  to  face,  bears  witness 
to  her  constant  mental  record  and  memory  re 
specting  the  habits  of  birds  and  woodland  man 
ners.  Every  year  we  find  her  longing  for  larger 
knowledge  ;  books  and  men  of  science  attracted 
her;  and  if  her  life  had  been  less  intensely 
laborious,  in  order  to  make  those  who  belonged 
to  her  comfortable  and  happy,  what  might  she 
not  have  achieved !  Her  nature  was  replete 
with  boundless  possibilities,  and  we  find  our 
selves  asking  the  old,  old  question,  Must  the 
artist  forever  crush  the  wings  by  which  he  flies 
against  such  terrible  limitations? — a  question 
never  to  be  answered  in  this  world. 

Her  observations  began  with  her  earliest 
breath  at  the  islands.  "  I  remember,"  she  says, 


CELIA  THAXTER  xxiil 

"  in  the  spring,  kneeling  on  the  ground  to  seek 
the  first  blades  of  grass  that  pricked  through  the 
soil,  and  bringing  them  into  the  house  to  study 
and  wonder  over.  Better  than  a  shopful  of 
toys  they  were  to  me!  Whence  came  their 
color?  How  did  they  draw  their  sweet,  re 
freshing  tint  from  the  brown  earth,  or  the  lim 
pid  air,  or  the  white  light  ?  Chemistry  was 
not  at  hand  to  answer  me,  and  all  her  wisdom 
would  not  have  dispelled  the  wonder.  Later, 
the  little  scarlet  pimpernel  charmed  me.  It 
seemed  more  than  a  flower;  it  was  like  a  hu 
man  thing.  I  knew  it  by  its  homely  name  of 
1  poor  man's  weather-glass/  It  was  so  much 
wiser  than  I ;  for  when  the  sky  was  yet  with 
out  a  cloud,  softly  it  clasped  its  small  red  petals 
together,  folding  its  golden  heart  in  safety  from 
the  shower  that  was  sure  to  come.  How  could 
it  know  so  much  ?  " 

Whatever  sorrows  life  brought  to  her,  and 
they  were  many  and  of  the  heaviest,  this  exqui 
site  enjoyment  of  nature,  the  tender  love  and 
care  for  every  created  thing  within  her  reach, 
always  stayed  her  heart.  To  see  her  lift  a  flower 
in  her  fingers,  —  fingers  which  gave  one  a  sense 
of  supporting  everything  which  she  touched, 


XXIV  CELIA  THAXTER 

expressive,  too,  of  fineness  in  every  fibre,  al 
though  strong  and  worn  with  labor,  —  to  see 
her  handle  these  wonderful  creatures  which  she 
worshiped,  was  something  not  to  be  forgotten. 
The  lines  of  Keats, 

"  Open  afresh  your  rounds  of  starry  folds, 
Ye  ardent  marigolds!  " 

were  probably  oftener  flitting  through  her  mind 
or  from  her  lips  than  through  the  mind  or  from 
the  lips  of  any  since  Keats  wrote  them.  She 
remembered  that  he  said  he  thought  his  "  in- 
tensest  pleasure  in  life  had  been  to  watch  the 
growth  of  flowers,"  but  she  was  sure  he  never 
felt  their  beauty  more  devoutly  "  than  the  little 
half-savage  being  who  knelt,  like  a  fire-wor 
shiper,  to  watch  the  unfolding  of  those  golden 
disks." 

The  time  came  at  last,  as  it  comes  to  every 
human  being,  for  asking  the  reason  of  the  faith 
that  was  in  her.  It  was  difficult  for  her  to 
reply.  Her  heart  had  often  questioned  whether 
she  believed,  and  what ;  and  yet,  as  she  has 
said,  she  could  not  keep  her  faith  out  of  her 
poems  if  she  would.  We  find  the  following 
passage  in  "  Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals,"  which 
throws  a  light  beyond  that  of  her  own  lantern. 


CELIA   THAXTER  XXV 

"  When  the  boat  was  out  late,"  she  says,  "  in 
soft,  moonless  summer  nights,  I  used  to  light  a 
lantern,  and,  going  down  to  the  water's  edge, 
take  my  station  between  the  timbers  of  the 
slip,  and,  with  the  lantern  at  my  feet,  sit  wait 
ing  in  the  darkness,  quite  content,  knowing  my 
little  star  was  watched  for,  and  that  the  safety 
of  the  boat  depended  in  a  great  measure  upon 
it  I  felt  so  much  a  part  of  the  Lord's  uni 
verse,  I  was  no  more  afraid  of  the  dark  than 
the  waves  or  winds ;  but  I  was  glad  to  hear  at 
last  the  creaking  of  the  mast  and  the  rattling 
of  the  rowlocks  as  the  boat  approached." 

"  A  part  of  the  Lord's  universe,"  —  that 
Celia  Thaxter  always  felt  herself  to  be,  and  for 
many  years  she  was  impatient  of  other  teaching 
than  what  nature  brought  to  her.  As  life  went 
on,  and  the  mingled  mysteries  of  human  pain 
and  grief  were  unfolded,  she  longed  for  a  closer 
knowledge.  At  first  she  sought  it  everywhere, 
and  patiently,  save  in  or  through  the  churches  ; 
with  them  she  was  long  ^wpatient.  At  last, 
after  ardent  search  through  the  religious  books 
and  by  means  of  the  teachers  of  the  Orient,  the 
Bible  was  born  anew  for  her,  and  the  New  Tes 
tament  became  a  fresh  source  of  life. 


XXVI  CELIA  THAXTER 

Nothing  was  ever  "  born  anew "  in  Celia 
Thaxter  which  she  did  not  strive  to  share  with 
others.  She  could  keep  nothing  hut  secrets  to 
herself.  Joys,  experiences  of  every  kind,  sor 
rows  and  misfortunes,  except  when  they  could 
darken  the  lives  of  others,  were  all  brought, 
open-handed  and  open-hearted,  to  those  she 
loved.  Her  generosity  knew  no  limits. 

There  is  a  description  by  her  of  the  flood 
which  swept  over  her  being,  and  seemed  to  carry 
her  away  from  the  earth,  when  she  once  saw 
the  great  glory  of  the  Lord  in  a  rainbow  at  the 
island.  Sbe  hid  her  face  from  the  wonder ;  it 
was  more  than  she  could  bear.  "  I  felt  then/' 
she  said,  "  how  I  longed  to  speak  these  things 
which  made  life  so  swset,  —  to  speak  the  wind, 
the  cloud,  the  bird's  flight,  the  sea's  murmur,  — 
and  ever  the  wish  grew  ;  "  and  so  it  was  she 
became,  growing  from  and  with  this  wish,  a  poet 
the  world  will  remember.  Dr.  Holmes  said 
once  in  conversation  that  he  thought  the  value 
of  a  poet  to  the  world  was  not  so  much  the 
pleasure  that  this  or  that  poem  might  give  to 
certain  readers,  or  even  perchance  to  posterity, 
as  the  fact  that  a  poet  was  known  to  be  one 
who  was  sometimes  rapt  out  of  himself  into 


CELIA  THAXTER  xxvii 

the  region  of  the  Divine;  that  the  spirit  had 
descended  upon  him  and  taught  him  what  he 
should  speak. 

This  is  especially  true  of  Celia  Thaxter, 
whose  life  was  divorced  from  worldliness,  while 
it  was  instinct  with  the  keenest  enjoyment  of 
life  and  of  God's  world.  She  liked  to  read 
her  poems  aloud  when  people  asked  for  them ; 
and  if  there  was  ever  a  genuine  reputation  from 
doing  a  thing  well,  such  a  reputation  was  hers. 
From  the  first  person  who  heard  her  the  wish 
began  to  spread,  until,  summer  after  summer, 
in  her  parlor,  listeners  would  gather,  if  she 
would  promise  to  read  to  them.  Night  after 
night  she  has  held  her  sway,  with  tears  and 
smiles  from  her  responsive  little  audiences, 
which  seemed  to  gain  new  courage  and  light 
from  what  she  gave  them.  Her  unspeakably 
interesting  nature  was  always  betraying  itself 
and  shining  out  between  the  lines.  Occasion 
ally  she  yielded  to  the  urgent  claims  brought 
to  bear  upon  her  by  her  friend  Mrs.  Johnson,  of 
the  Woman's  Prison,  and  would  go  to  read  to 
the  sad-eyed  audience  at  Sherborn.  Even  those 
hearts  dulled  by  wrong  and  misery  awakened  at 
the  sound  of  her  voice.  It  was  not  altogethei 


xxviii  CELIA   THAXTER 

this  or  that  verse  or  ballad  that  made  the  tears 
flow,  or  brought  a  laugh  from  her  hearers :  it 
was  the  deep  sympathy  which  she  carried  in 
her  heart  and  which  poured  out  in  her  voice ; 
a  hope,  too,  for  them,  and  for  what  they  might 
yet  become.  She  could  not  go  frequently, — 
she  was  too  deeply  laden  with  responsibilities 
nearer  home ;  but  it  was  always  a  holiday  when 
she  was  known  to  be  coming,  and  a  season  of 
light-heartedness  to  Mrs.  Johnson  as  well  as  to 
the  prisoners. 

It  is  a  strange  fallacy  that  a  poet  may  not 
read  his  own  verses  well.  Who  beside  the 
writer  should  comprehend  every  shade  of  mean 
ing  which  made  the  cloud  or  sunshine  of  his 
poem?  Mrs.  Thaxter  certainly  read  her  own 
verse  with  a  fullness  of  suggestion  which  no 
other  reader  could  have  given  it,  and  her  voice 
was  sufficient,  too,  although  not  loud  or  strik 
ing,  to  fill  and  satisfy  the  ear  of  the  listener.  But 
at  the  risk  of  repetition  we  recall  that  it  was  her 
own  generous,  beautiful  nature,  unlike  that  of 
any  other,  which  made  her  reading  helpful  to 
all  who  heard  her.  She  speaks  somewhere  of 
the  birds  on  her  island  as  "  so  tame,  knowing 
how  well  they  are  beloved,  that  they  gather  on 


CELIA   THAXTER  xxix 

the  window-sills,  twittering  and  fluttering,  gay 
and  graceful,  turning  their  heads  this  way  and 
that,  eying  you  askance  without  a  trace  of  fear." 
And  so  it  was  with  the  human  beings  who 
came  to  know  her.  They  were  attracted,  they 
came  near,  they  flew  under  her  protection,  and 
were  not  disappointed  of  their  rest. 


LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER 


THE  seclusion  of  Celia  Laighton  from  the 
world  during  the  early  years  of  her  life  will 
sufficiently  account  for  the  absence  of  any 
letters  during  that  period.  The  only  record 
of  her  childhood  is  what  she  has  given  in 
her  book  "Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals." 

No  letters  have  been  found   earlier  than 
1856,   when  Mrs.    Thaxter  was    little    more 
than  twenty  years  old.      The  very  first  are 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Hoxie,  and  are  more  auto 
biographical  than  any  others  written  at  this 
period.      They  begin  abruptly. 
I'm1   desperately   afraid    I   didn't   sufficiently 
express  my  gratitude  to  Mary  for  her  thought 
ful  kindness   in   writing  to   me  so    soon    after 
we  had  got  to  this  place  "where  people  want 
letters  "  (there  never  was  a  truer  remark).     You 
must  thank  her  again,   if  you  please,  for  me, 
and  tell  her  I  hope  she  got  the  sweet  peas  I 
sent,  and  that  I  shall  write  her  by  and  by  more 
1  To  Elizabeth  Curzon  Hoxie.    Appledore,  May  25,  1856. 


2  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1856 

of  a  letter  than  the  scrap  of  a  note  accompany 
ing  them. 

I  wonder  Bob  isn't  at  the  head  of  every 
class  in  everything.  How  I  should  like  to  see 
him,  and  dear  Nanny  and  Neddy!  We  were 
really  dreadfully  sorry  to  hear  how  near  we  were 
to  seeing  them  that  morning  we  left  Newbury- 
port,  and  yet  missed  it.  I  declare  I  would  have 
given  almost  anything  for  a  sight  of  their  dear 
little  bright  faces.  Karly  is  for  sending  the 
Golden  Eagle  right  up  the  river  for  them  to  bring 
them  over  here,  —  that  was  his  suggestion,  — 
directly.  Tell  Nanny  —  dear,  precious  little  girl 
—  that  Karly  does  lots  of  things  to  help  me ; 
and  tell  them  both  that  Karly  and  "little  Non  " 
(as  he  calls  himself  and  we  call  him  now)  never 
forget  them,  but  talk  about  them  every  day. 
Baby  still  calls  wistfully,  "Nanny!  Neddy!" 
and  seems  to  wonder  they  don't  come  when  he 
wants  them  so  much.  I  wonder  how  many 
squares  of  patchwork  Nan  has  made  since  I  left 
the  Mill.  John  goes  up  and  down  the  piazza 
steps  and  runs  off  to  where  a  calf  is  tied  close 
by,  and  falls  into  a  wild-rose  bush  and  gets  his 
fat  legs  full  of  briers,  struggles  up  again,  only 
to  fall  on  a  stone  and  make  a  black  and  blue 
spot  on  his  knee,  gets  off  that  and  falls  into  a 
raspberry  bush,  and  so  on  indefinitely,  while  his 


1857]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  3 

mother  and  father  and  grandmother,  when  they 
do  notice  him,  burst  into  shouts  of  inextinguish 
able  laughter,  for  he  is  the  most  ridiculous  ob 
ject  ever  beheld,  just  as  round  as  an  apple  and 
broad  as  he  is  long,  toddling  and  waddling  and 
tumbling  in  every  direction.  He  can  say  any 
thing  now,  and  it  is  too  funny  to  hear  him 
talk. 

My  eyes  are  almost  shut  from  weariness  and 
sleepiness,  and  I  shall  have  to  stop  writing  and 
send  you  this  poor  little  stupid  scrawl  after  all, 
dear  Lizzy.  But,  dear,  take  the  will  for  the 
deed;  I  have  the  heart  to  write  you  twenty 
pages  and  hundreds  of  loving  words.  Kiss  the 
darling  children  for  me.  I  inclose  a  piece  of 
baby's  dress  for  sweetest  Nan  to  make  a  little 
square  of.  Give  kindest  love  to  John  and 
mamma  and  Mary,  and  believe  me  ever  most 
affectionately  yours,  CELIA. 

How  do  George  Curtis  and  Anna  progress? 
I  long  to  hear  about  them. 

Oh,1  these  exemplary  housekeepers,  how  much 
they  have  to  do !  I  feel  as  if  I  were  sinning 
against  my  conscience  when  I  write  a  letter  on 
any  day  but  Sunday,  because  it  is  inevitable  that 
1  To  E.  C.  Hoxie.  Newtonville,  January  18, 1857. 


4  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER          [1857 

I  should  neglect  some  important  duty  to  do  it, 
and  I  never  do  do  it  except  in  a  case  of  vital 
importance.  It  is  a  good  thing,  after  steady 
trying,  to  have  your  husband  pronounce  you 
"virtuous"  when  you  are  doing  your  best,  but 
sometimes  it 's  a  great  bore  being  exemplary. 
But  there  is  another  reason  I  haven't  written 
to  you,  and  that  is  because  I  have  been  wait 
ing  to  finish  something  I  have  been  making  for 
dearest  little  Nankins,  and  I  wanted  to  send 
the  bundle  when  I  wrote;  but  I  can't  wait  any 
longer,  and  I  can  only  say  about  the  bundle 
that  I  hope  by  some  means  to  propel  it  in  your 
direction  sometime  before  next  Saturday. 

Tell  Mary  her  letter  was  received  a  day  or 
two  ago,  and  was  read  with  infinite  applause 
and  unbounded  merriment.  I  don't  know  when 
we  have  enjoyed  anything  so  much.  Levi  goes 
off  into  the  tenderest  reminiscences  of  the  Mills, 
and  thinks  of  you  all  collectively  and  then  sep 
arately,  and  broods  over  the  idea  of  seeing  some 
of  you.  He  keeps  breaking  out  by  fits  and 
starts,  "Don't  you  think  Mrs.  Curzon  will  come 
to  Boston  this  winter?"  and  "Can't  Lizzie  be 
got  up  in  the  spring,  don't  you  suppose?  "  and 
"  When  will  Margie  and  Mary  get  along  ? " 

You  don't  know  what  a  steady  old  drudge  I 
have  grown  to  be,  and  I  'm  happy  as  the  day  is 


1857]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  5 

long,  and  the  children  are  perfect  "gardens  of 
paradise,"  and  Levi  is  beautiful  and  gentle  and 
good  and  unselfish  as  mortal  man  can  be.  And 
we  have  splendid  times.  Such  good  evenings 
as  we  have !  And  they  are  so  fascinating  some 
times  we  don't  break  up  the  meeting  till  past 
eleven,  never  till  after  ten.  We  draw  the  table 
up  to  the  roaring  fire,  and  I  take  my  work,  and 
Levi  reads  to  me ;  first  he  read  "  Aurora  "  (and 
you  're  an  abominable  woman  for  not  thinking 
it  the  beautifullest  book  that  was  ever  written), 
then  "Dred,"  which  in  spite  of  the  little  bird 
women,  horrid  little  things,  we  enjoyed.  Levi 
gave  the  negro  talk  with  such  gusto  we  had 
shouts  of  laughter  over  it.  Next  to  "Dred" 
we  read  Dr.  Kane's  books,  the  two  volumes  of 
the  Arctic  expedition.  Oh,  how  we  did  enjoy 
that!  Full  of  beautiful  pictures  taken  on  the 
spot  by  Dr.  Kane  himself,  which  we  looked  at 
together  and  admired  and  commented  upon  and 
enjoyed  as  much  as  they  could  be  enjoyed  by 
anybody.  Brave,  splendid  Dr.  Kane!  We 
watch  the  papers  for  every  bit  of  news  of  him 
which  floats  to  us  from  that  far-off  tropical  Cuba 
where  he  has  gone  to  recover,  if  he  can,  from 
the  everlasting  chill  he  got  among  the  icebergs 
with  the  thermometer  seventy-five  degrees  below 
zero!  Now  we  are  reading  Ruskin's  last  vol- 


6  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1857 

ume  of  "Modern  Painters,"  and  I  declare  I 
can't  tell  what  we  have  the  best  times  over,  for 
we  sometimes  lose  ourselves  in  wonder  and  ad 
miration  at  him,  and  then  shout  with  unbounded 
mirth  over  his  impatient  sarcasm,  his  down- 
rightness,  if  that's  an  allowable  word;  and 
fall  into  a  great  feeling  of  reverence  occasionally 
over  him  and  say  to  each  other  how  true  are 
Margie's  ideas  of  the  highest  art  because  she 
follows  nature  so  nobly  and  faithfully,  —  that  is 
high  art  according  to  him;  very  few  people  do 
it  faithfully.  You  don't  know  how  entirely 
happy  we  are  to  be  together  again,  with  both 
children ;  it  seems  as  if  we  had  found  each  other 
anew  and  never  were  so  substantially  happy 
before.  The  children  keep  so  well  it  is  almost 
alarming,  not  even  having  occasional  colds,  which 
I  thought  was  the  common  lot  of  humanity. 
The  scarlet  fever  is  all  around  us  in  every  di 
rection  too.  Are  n't  we  very  happy  to  be  able 
to  hear  Theodore  Parker?  Such  preaching  is 
of  inestimable  worth.  The  sermon  I  heard  this 
afternoon  was  wonderful ;  such  power  and  pathos 
in  a  human  voice  was  wonderful.  I  don't 
think  there  was  a  person  in  the  house  who  kept 
tearless  eyes  through  that  sermon.  He  de 
scribed  the  rapture  of  a  father  when  his  first 
born  son  is  put  into  his  arms,  so  exquisitely,  so 


1857]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  7 

truly,  grew  so  enraptured  himself  in  the  descrip 
tion,  so  carried  away  by  his  own  feeling,  that 
he  was  transfigured.  He  looked  a  god  standing 
with  outspread  arms  before  us  all,  instead  of 
the  stern,  grave,  middle-aged  man  that  had 
walked  up  to  the  reading-desk  an  hour  before. 
And  yet  he  never  had  a  child !  How  could  he 
do  that  so  inimitably  ?  Was  it  so  perfect  from 
the  very  reason  that  the  rapture  is  denied  him  '\ 
Oh,  Lizzie,  he  does  talk  beautifully  and  won 
derfully.  He  moves  people  to  tears  and  to 
laughter;  he  carries  all  his  audience  along  with 
him  resistlessly ;  he  makes  them  quail  under 
the  weight  of  their  own  sins,  and  shows  them 
then  where  is  strength  and  hope  and  comfort, 
and  sends  one  away  cheerful  and  feeling  infi 
nitely  better  than  when  one  came.  If  you 
could  only  hear  him  describe  "Miss  Matilda 
Caroline  who  has  ruined  her  constitution  pull 
ing  a  bell-rope!"  It  is  too  rich.  I  don't  see 
what  I  have  done  that  the  Lord  has  given  me 
so  great  a  delight  among  other  delights  as  hear 
ing  and  vseeing  and  knowing  this  man. 

I  'm  afraid  you  '11  think  my  letter  very 
stupid,  dear  Lizzie.  I  was  so  glad  to  hear  how 
comfortable  you  are  in  the  dear  little  Mill. 
Levi  thinks  that  a  walk  on  the  Artichoke 
would  put  a  climax  on  his  state  of  bliss.  Beau- 


8  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1857 

tiful  little  river!  How  I  should  like  to  see  it. 
Is  Myra  still  with  you  1  If  she  is,  remember  me 
to  her,  and  do  not  tell  her  how  I  swear  at  her 
every  day  I  wear  the  dress  she  made  for  me, 
for  it  is  continually  giving  out  in  all  directions, 
and  the  wrists  have  taken  up  their  position  just 
below  my  elbows,  whence  they  stubbornly  refuse 
to  stir.  Do  give  my  very  best  budget  of  re 
gards  and  remembrances  and  love  to  John,  and 
kisses,  ad  libitum,  to  the  children. 

Ever  your  affectionate 

CELIA. 

To  think  of  your l  asking  such  a  question  as  "  Do 
I  care  about  Charlotte  Bronte  " !  As  if  I  did 
not  care  everything  I  am  capable  of  caring  for 
anything!  As  if  Levi  and  I  had  n't  read  her 
books  with  rapture,  and  hadn't  looked  forward 
to  the  publishing  of  Mrs.  Gaskell's  book  about 
her  as  one  of  the  most  interesting  things  that 
could  happen;  as  if  we  did  n't  lament  her  loss  to 
the  world  every  year  of  our  lives !  Oh,  Lizzie ! 
I  'm  ashamed  that  you  know  so  little  of  your 
friends.  We  are  not  so  happy  as  to  see  the 
"Tribune."  We  have  seen  no  extracts,  there 
fore.  How  nice  they  are  making  "Putnam's," 
are  n't  they?  We  have  had  one  extract  from 
1  To  E.  C.  Hoxie.  Newtonville,  March  28, 1857 


1857]  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  9 

a  letter  of  Bayard  Taylor's,  a  spirited  reindeei 
performance. 

The  T s  brought  us  home  Guide's  "Au 
rora,"  engraved  by  Raphael  Morghen.  You 
have  seen  the  picture?  Oh,  so  splendid  as  it 
is!  Levi  and  I  look  at  it  by  the  half-hour  to 
gether  and  find  new  beauties  in  it  daily. 

Bless  the  children,  how  did  it  happen  they 
were  sick?  John  and  Karl  have  grand  times 
out  doors,  and  get  dirtier  than  a  whole  diction 
ary  can  express.  I  do  my  own  washing  now, 
c_.  d  think  of  you  all  the  time,  and  get  tired  to 
deatit  and  half  dead,  but  unlike  you  I  fret  and 
worry  when  things  go  wrong,  and  scold  and 
fuss.  Oh,  for  your  patience !  How  mine  takes 
wing  and  leaves  me  forlorn  and  ugly  and  hor 
rid!  How  it  seems  as  if  the  weary  load  of 
things  one  makes  out  to  do,  with  such  expendi 
ture  of  strength  and  nerves  and  patience,  goes 
for  naught,  no  manner  of  notice  ever  taken  of 
all  that  is  accomplished;  but  if  anything  is  left 
undone,  ah  me,  the  hue  and  cry  that  is  raised ! 
I  don't  think  you  can  have  any  conception 
what  an  infinite  source  of  pleasure  and  consola 
tion  under  all  trials  Browning's  "Men  and 
Women  "  are  to  me.  There  is  something  satis 
factory  to  every  mood  of  the  human  mind  in 
that  book.  Many  of  the  shorter  pieces  I  know 


10  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [185* 

by  heart,  and  you  would  laugh  to  hear  the 
children,  who  catch  everything  from  me,  talking 
about 

"  The  patching  house-leel;'s  head  of  blossom  winks 
Through  the  chinks," 

and  so  forth.  Also  you  'd  be  killed  to  heai 
John  roar  out  "The  splendor  falls  on  castle 
walls,"  etc.,  from  beginning  to  end,  and  also 
"Half  a  league,"  etc. 

My  heart  ;s  full  of  you  all,  this  delicious 
spring  weather.  Tell  Mamy  I  think  the  Whit- 
tier  poem  is  one  of  the  sweetest  and  freshest  I 
ever  saw  ol  his.  Give  my  best  love  to  dearest 
mamma  and  all.  How  Kind  you  are  to  write, 
dear  Lizzie.  I/o  beg  them  to  write.  Ever 
most  affectionately  your  poor  little  helpless 
foolish  CELIA. 

If  you 1  and  I,  Lizzie,  only  had  a  small  por 
tion  of  the  time  elegant  young  ladier  fritter 
away,  would  n't  we  do  wonders  and  would  n't 
we  be  happy  and  make  much  of  it?  Heigho! 
I  never  shall  have  any,  I  'm  afraid.  Is  n't 
Sally  with  you,  or  anybody?  Are  you  any 
worse  for  the  hard  times?  We're  not;  not 
having  anything  to  lose,  we  've  lost  nothing, 
and  having  no  risks  run,  and  nothing  to  do 
i  To  E.  C.  Hoxie  Newtonville,  Sunday,  November  22d 


185T]          LETTERS   OF  CELT  A  THAXTER  11 

with  anybody  or  anything  in  the  way  of  get 
ting  a  living,  we  're  no  better  nor  worse  than 
before  the  panic.  Now  the  cold  weather  is 
come,  I  have  a  washerwoman,  which  is  a  relief, 
but  the  ironing  is  hideous,  ungrateful  that  I 
am!  You  have  ever  so  much  harder  time  than 
I,  dear  Lizzie.  I  do  wish  I  could  help  you,  and 
that  we  lived  together.  We  've  had  no  sick 
ness  to  speak  of,  yet,  and  I  humbly  trust  in 
Providence  we  may  get  through  the  winter 
without  any  very  horrid  time.  John  is  splen 
didly  well  and  comfortable  and  comforting  and 
delightful.  Karly,  I  think,  is  getting  less  ner 
vous  than  he  was.  I  try  very  hard  to  let  him 
alone,  but  he  is  so  mischievous  that  I  can't  hrlp 
visiting  him  with  small  thunder  occasionally, 
also  spanks.  Poor  little  spud!  he  is  very 
loving  and  sometimes  very  sweet  and  gentle. 
Yesterday  John  came  in  from  outdoors,  red  as 
a  poppy  and  bellowing  lustily.  "Mamma, 
that  naughty  biddy  won't  let  me  take  hold  of 
her  tail ! "  and  he  howled  with  rage  and  I 
screamed  with  laughter.  The  biddies  are  fine. 
The  other  day  we  killed  the  old  rooster,  the 
magnificent  sultan  of  the  flock,  and  boiled  him 
in  a  floured  .  bag,  and  he  was  delicious.  We 
had  company  to  dinner,  a  strange  young  lady 
from  Boston,  and  John  kept  saying  "Please, 


12  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER          [185? 

Mamma,  give  me  another  piece  of  cockerel ! n 
to  my  immense  private  amusement.  Since 
his  majesty  was  decapitated  all  the  other 
princes  have  nearly  fought  each  other  dead, 
and  great  will  be  the  slaughter  among  them 
presently,  by  their  human  (or  rather  inhuman) 
keepers.  Levi  and  I  nearly  expire  over  the 
performances  of  hens,  and  think  of  you  often 
in  connection.  Oh,  Lizzie,  do  you  have  races 
with  things  to  get  them  eaten  up  1  What  with 
trying  to  eat  up  the  quinces,  apples,  squashes, 
pumpkins,  etc.,  as  fast  as  they  get  a  leaning 
towards  decay,  we  are  obliged  to  eat  very  little 
else;  everybody  in  the  neighborhood  is  so  rich 
there  's  nobody  to  give  them  away  to.  I  think 
Lamartine  would  be  perfectly  satisfied  with  our 
present  diet.  I  've  just  got  rid  of  the  last 
tomatoes,  to  my  great  satisfaction.  I  've  been 
lugging  them  about  the  county  to  my  various 
friends  for  the  last  month,  in  the  vain  endeavor 
to  get  rid  of  them,  and  now  there  's  only  one 
mess  left. 

Thanks  for   the   Murray.      Next  winter  we 

shall  regularly    set    about  's  "education," 

and  a  precious  time  we  shall  have  of  it. 

These  early  letters  show  Mrs.  Thaxter  to 
be  the  child  she  really  was,  despite  her  mar 
ried  estate.  Much  is  omitted,  but  a  frequent 


1857]          LETTERS   OF   CELTA  THAXTER  13 

impatience  with  the  conditions  of  life  in  such 
contrast  to  her  unfettered  youth  is  expressed 
in  her  own  downright  and  amusing  fashion. 
But  the  Lord  knows,  it  'a  no  use  borrowing 
trouble.  Little  Celia  is  —  non  est.  I  sigh  for 
her;  the  children  sigh  in  chorus.  If  we  could 
unite  our  sighs  with  yours  for  the  same  cause, 
what  a  breeze  we  should  raise !  The  boys  are 
in  a  kind  of  tremor  of  expectation  of  St.  Nich 
olas  and  his  treasures.  I  want  to  hang  up  my 
stocking  too,  dreadfully;  except  that  I  feel  it 
in  my  bones  St.  Nicholas  would  overlook  it,  I 
certainly  should.  Perhaps  a  certain  friend  will 
remember  me,  and  make  me  a  present  of  some 
cloth  to  make  Levi  six  shirts,  as  she  did  once 
before,  you  know ! 

I  devour  books  whenever  I  get  a  chance,  read 
Dante  and  peel  squash,  ti  la  Elizabeth  Brontd, 
have  got  through  Hell  and  Purgatory  and  am 
coming  to  Heaven  now,  thank  fortune!  We 
have  just  been  reading  " Quits ;"  'twould  do 
well  enough  if  one  had  the  time  for  it.  White 
Lies!!  Don't  mention  'em!!!  If  the  agony 
is  n't  piled  sky-high  I  'd  like  to  know  where 
you  '11  find  it.  Imagine  yourself  Josephine,  and 
Raynal's  face  coming  over  that  screen!  Good 
Lord  be  with  us!  what  a  situation,  and  the 
baby  in  her  lap,  "  rustle- thump,  rustle-thump  "  1 


14  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [3859 

How  capital  that  is!  Levi  will  send  you  "The 
Box  Tunnel"  and  "Propria  Quae  Maribus,"  I 
suppose;  if  he  doesn't  I  will.  He  sends  love 
and  says  he  shall  write  speedily,  and  he  wishes 
you  were  here.  Dear  Lizzie,  do  come  and  make 
us  a  good  long  visit,  can't  you?  and  rest  a  little, 
poor  little  woman.  I  mean  come  and  stay 
with  me,  and  not  go  tearing  round  Boston  and 
Brookline  and  Lord  knows  where.  Bring  Nan, 
or  all;  they  would  have  line  times  together. 
Doesn't  Bob  have  a  vacation?  Do  come,  I  beg 
and  entreat,  any  time;  we  should  only  be  too 
enchanted  to  see  you,  and  the  children  would 
be  in  ecstasier  to  see  yours.  Karly  sings, 

"  The  cars  are  ready  and  the  horses  are  waiting, 
And  I  'm  bound  to  see  my  own  Nanny  Hoxie, 
I  'm  bound  to  see  my  own  Nanny  Hoxie," 

and  so  on,  ad  libitum.  His  own  idea;  and 
it 's  killing  to  hear  the  emphasis  of  the  young 
man. 

1 1  have  been  enduring  the  severest  stabs  of  con 
science  for  the  longest  while,  thinking  of  you 
almost  every  day  and  wishing  with  all  my  heart 
to  write  to  you.  First  I  had  a  siege  of  sick 
ness,  then  a  Gulf  Stream  of  company. 

i  To  E.  C.  Hoxie.    Newton,  January  30,  1859,  Sunday 
Morning. 


1859]          LETTERS   OF   CELT  A  THAXTER  15 

Sunday  night.  I  thought  I  should  have  so 
much  time  to-day  to  write  and  do  all  sorts  of 
things,  yet  this  is  all  I  have  been  able  to  accom 
plish  !  Now  baby  and  his  brothers  are  in  bed 
and  asleep  and  I  feel  like  being  in  bed  and 
asleep  too,  too  sleepy  to  have  any  ideas  left. 
How  charmingly  Nanny's  letter  was  written! 
Tell  her  I  shall  answer  it  the  very  first  chance  I 
get.  She  may  look  forward  to  a  very  big  letter 
all  to  herself  very  soon.  I  wish  I  could  see 
her.  I  know  how  beautiful  it  always  is  at  the 
mill,  how  beautiful  in  every  way.  Somehow 
"  crude  "  is  the  word  that  expresses  this  place. 
It  seems  to  me  at  the  world's  end  —  lonely, 
un-get-at-able,  uninteresting,  not  one  beloved, 
friendly  face  within  reach,  no  children  for  ours 
to  play  with ;  but  it  might  be  a  great  deal  worse 
too.  I  don't  wish  to  be  ungrateful,  the  Lord 
preserve  us!  With  such  a  baby  too!  Lizzie, 
I'm  fairly  in  raptures  with  this  baby;  never 
was  in  raptures  before,  always  thought  small  of 
my  own  goslings,  but  this  baby  smiles  the  very 
heart  out  of  my  breast.  He  is  too  angelical  for 
words  to  give  any  idea  of  him.  Is  n't  it  funny 
that  he  should  be  such  a  jolly,  sweet  little 
pleasant  creature  when  his  mamma  was  always 
so  glum  before  he  came?  And  he  hasn't  a 
name!  Levi  wants  to  call  him  David,  but  I 


16  LETTERS   OF    CELIA   THAXTER          [1859 

despise  it,  and  Koland,  which  is  the  only  other 
name  he  will  listen  to,  isn't  exactly  satisfactory 
either.  Dear  me!  if  he  had  only  been  a  girl 
there  would  have  been  no  difficulty  in  naming 
him. 

I  suppose  you  have  seen  by  the  papers  that 
Mr.  Weiss  has  resigned  his  ministry  at  New 
Bedford;  he  will  probably  take  his  family  and 
come  and  live  on  his  brains  somewhere  in  this 
vicinity.  He  will  not  preach  again,  at  least  he 
doesn't  mean  to  at  present. 

Tell  Margie,  mother  has  half  promised  to 
come  this  February  and  see  us,  and  that  we  are 
going  to  the  island  in  March,  for  in  the  sum 
mer  Levi  proposes  wandering  off  to  Mount  De 
sert  or  some  such  preposterous  place.  There 
can  never  be  such  a  charming  sea  place  as  the 
islands;  how  can  anybody  want  to  go  further? 
I  do  not,  most  certainly. 

Dearest  Lizzie,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  trying 
to  write  to  you  when  I  'm  so  infinitely  stupid. 
I  wish  I  could  shake  my  own  family  off  for  a 
week  and  come  and  help  you  wash  dishes  and 
mend  stockings  and  admire  Neddy.  Tell  Mar 
gie  we  've  got  a  new  set  of  silver,  New  Year's 
present  from  grandmother,  very  solid,  very 
heavy,  very  handsome,  very  horrid  to  take  care 
of,  have  to  keep  drumming  up  the  girls  about 


1859]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  17 

it  and  going  round  with  a  nasty  bit  of  wash- 
leather  rubbing  here  and  rubbing  there.  Give 
me  my  iron  jug  and  iron  spoon,  say  I  with  Mr. 
Thoreau.  Susy  Dabney  gave  Karly  "Wee 
Willie  Winkie's  "  nursery  songs,  and  it  is  so 
charming. 

We  take  the  semi- weekly  "Tribune"  and 
think  of  you.  Isn't  "Minister's  Wooing71 
killing  good? 

MY  DARLING  LITTLE  NAN  :  1  —  Would  you 
like,  some  day  when  you  have  a  little  time,  to 
go  along  the  river  bank  with  a  piece  of  paper 
or  something,  and  gather  me  some  harebell 
seeds?  If  you  could  and  would,  I  should  be 
so  very  glad,  for  I  want  to  get  the  dear  lovely 
bells  to  grow  here  by  our  river  as  well  as  by 
yours,  and  I  am  afraid  the  roots  I  brought  all 
the  way  from  Newburyport  and  set  out  here, 
will  not  live.  If  I  had  some  seeds  I  would 
plant  them  this  fall  and  I  think  they  'd  come 
up  in  the  spring. 

How  is  mamma  and  dear  little  Anson,  and 
papa  and  all  ?  How  I  should  like  to  see  you 
all.  We  have  got  a  dear  little  baby  named 
Richard,  and  a  little  girl  named  May  Dana, 
here,  and  their  mother,  and  the  baby  was  born 
i  To  Nanny  Hoxie. 


18  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1859 

in  Utah,  and  rode  all  the  way  from  the  Kocky 
Mountains  to  Massachusetts  in  an  ambulance 
across  the  plains  when  he  was  five  months  old, 
in  August.  One  night  there  was  a  dreadful 
storm  (they  had  to  make  a  tent-house  for  them 
selves  every  night),  and  the  rain  and  wind  were 
so  frightful  they  tore  down  the  tent-house,  and 
drenched  all  their  clothes,  and  all  their  beds, 
and  everything  they  had,  and  then  they  were 
exposed  to  the  merciless  storm  till  morning,  not 
a  dry  rag  to  put  on,  or  a  dry  place  to  put  baby, 
and  the  big  hailstones  beating  them  till  he  cried 
with  the  pain  of  them.  Wasn't  that  cruel? 
Think  of  little  Anson  exposed  to  such  a  dread 
ful  storm !  But  it  was  beautiful,  pleasant  days 
traveling,  for  all  the  ground  was  covered  with 
such  lovely  flowers,  verbenas,  petunias,  gladi 
olus,  mats  of  crimson  and  scarlet  portulaca,  and 
all  sorts  of  lovely  garden  flowers  growing  wild, 
and  wonderful  kinds  of  cactus,  etc.  But  poor 
little  Eichard  and  May  like  wooden  houses  bet 
ter  than  tents,  and  living  here  with  their  little 
cousins  better  than  being  rattled  along  by  the 
trains  of  mules  and  troops  of  men  day  after  day, 
through  the  sunshine  and  rain.  Kiss  dear  baby 
for  me,  and  darling  precious  mamma,  and  give 
my  love  to  Mamey  and  Gamma  and  papa  and  the 


1861]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  19 

boys,  and  do  write  to  me,  Nan  darling,  and  send 
me  the  seeds  if  you  can. 

Ever  affectionately  your  little  Auntie 

CELIA. 

I l  have  been  overrun  with  things  and  people, 
no  end  of  people,  who  seem  to  think  this 
nook  of  Newtonville  particularly  delightful; 
but  you  Curzon  people  know  what  it  is  to  have 
a  river  and  a  boat  and  live  in  the  country,  and 
though  we  don't  pretend  to  the  attractions  and 
allurements  which  the  Mills  possess,  still  we 
have  enough  to  attract  quite  a  swarm  of  sum 
mer  flies!  I  beg  their  pardon,  I  'm  very  fond 
of  them  all,  but  I  realize  more  and  more,  the 
longer  I  live,  what  a  good  thing  it  is  to  have  a 
little  time  to  one's  self,  if  only  for  the  purpose 
of  writing  to  one's  friends.  And  how  are  you, 
dear  Lizzy  1  I  wish  I  could  know ;  you  were 
sick,  Margie  told  me,  and  I  was  so  sorry  to  hear 
it,  —  but  that  was  months  ago.  I  hope  you 
are  well  now  and  feel  strong,  but  alas  for  the 
strength  of  feminine  humanity  such  days  as 
these!  Such  heat!  Good  heavens,  you  can 
boil  eggs  and  roast  chickens  anywhere  in  this 
house,  any  time  in  the  day.  I  told  Marie  yes 
terday  that  it  was  absurdly  superfluous  putting 
i  To  E.  C.  Hoxie.  Newton,  July  10,  1861. 


20  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1861 

her  flatirons  on  the  range;  she  need  only  set 
them  on  the  window-sill  and  she  'd  be  able  to 
iron  her  starched  clothes  with  them  in  the  space 
of  five  minutes.  To  think  of  coming  from  the 
island  in  such  weather !  where  I  wore  the  thick 
est  Valencia,  a  perfect  horse-blanket  of  a  gown, 
all  the  time!  Can't  wear  anything  here;  have 
to  exist  without  clothes,  and  it 's  hard  enough 
keeping  body  and  soul  together  at  that.  I  had 
such  a  good  time  at  the  island,  and  when  I 
came  home  Levi  met  me  in  Boston  and  tri 
umphantly  informed  me  I  could  go  home  by 
land  or  water,  as  he  had  rowed  in  from  Nevv- 
tonville  with  George  Folsom,  and  Karl  and  John, 
and  Henry  Weiss.  Well,  I  had  started  from 
the  island  between  four  and  five  o'clock  and 
floated  on  the  unruffled  bosom  of  the  broad 
Atlantic  until  between  nine  and  ten,  with  Lony 
asleep  on  my  knees,  and  felt  as  if  I  had  had 
quite  enough  water  for  one  day ;  but  I  perceived 
my  spouse  would  particularly  like  to  have  me 
be  rowed  home,  so  I  embarked  at  Cambridge 
bridge,  a  cushion  behind  me,  an  umbrella 
(Sairey  Gamp's  own)  over  me,  a  box  of  straw 
berries  in  my  lap,  and  four  admiring  masculine 
bipeds  opposite  me.  I  don't  include  Lony  ;  he 
had  been  to  the  island  with  me  and  only  "set 
store  by  me "  in  a  general  way.  Had  I  not 


1861]  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  21 

been  such  a  travel-stained  Cleopatra,  and  so 
tired  and  hot,  I  should  have  had  a  sparkling 
and  vivacious  time;  but  I  had  a  very  lovely  if 
not  a  high  time,  and  enjoyed  it  thoroughly. 
We  got  home  a  little  after  sunset,  George  and 
Levi  rowing  by  turns,  and  stopped  on  the  way 
to  leave  a  basket  of  fish  at  the  Robbins's,  who 
live  conveniently  on  the  bank  of  the  river. 
We  had  on  board  two  baskets  which  accompa 
nied  me  from  the  island  as  baggage,  —  champagne 
baskets,  —  containing  heaps  of  beautiful  loaves 
of  bread,  and  six  big  lumps  of  fresh  butter,  a 
great  huge  plank  of  sponge  cake  and  a  huge 
loaf  of  plum,  a  great  many  corned  mackerel, 
splendid  salt  fish,  and  two  lovely,  indeed  I 
may  say,  heavenly,  jars  of  fresh  potted  lobster. 
So  we  feasted.  To  be  sure  the  corned  mackerel 
weren't  of  much  use  in  their  raw  state,  but 
the  gentlemen  "let  in"  to  the  other  edibles  in 
a  way  that  did  credit  to  their  appetites ;  at  least 
Levi  did.  George  isn't  in  the  habit  of  eating, 
I  believe,  anything. 

At  present  we  subsist  principally  on  ice 
cream,  Levi  having  invested  in  a  freezer  which 
really  and  truly  freezes  in  five  minutes,  and 
will  freeze  in  four,  a  small  quantity.  And  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  the  reason  I  am  writing  to 
you  to-night  is  because  I  am  afraid  to  go  to  bed 


22  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1861 

after  a  big  plateful  (flavored  with  strawberries 
freshly  mashed  up  in  it  and  sherry  wine,  a  jolly 
mixture  I  assure  you!).  We  have  been  out  on 
the  river  till  nearly  ten,  rowing  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ed 
ward  Bangs,  and  there  was  moonlight  and  star 
light  and  firefly  light  and  lightning,  and  it' was 
lovely  on  the  water,  and  Mrs.  Bangs  is  such  a 
raving  beauty  that  one  can't  look  at  her  enough. 

Thursday  evening.  Of  all  the  nasty-looking 
letters  I  ever  did  write  I  think  this  is  the 
worst!  But  it 's  all  on  account  of  a  new  india- 
rubber  pen,  which  is  in  such  a  hurry  to  write 
that  it  lets  the  ink  all  down  in  a  lump,  all  of 
a  sudden;  but  I  needn't  tell  you  that,  for  you 
know  what  exquisitely  neat  letters  I  'm  in  the 
habit  of  writing  to  my  friends,  from  experience. 
Seriously,  I  think  Aspasia  would  consider  me 
beneath  her  notice,  because  she  says  a  woman 
isn't  worth  sixpence  who  doesn't  make  her 
letters  exquisite,  doesn't  take  pains  to  have 
her  handwriting  neat. 

Do  Bob  and  Ned  drill  ?  Karl  and  John  do 
nothing  but  fight ;  they  live  on  it  all  the  time ; 
it 's  their  bread  and  meat  and  drink.  I  suppose 
it's  a  natural  instinct  —  to  prepare  them  for  the 
war.  They  roared  in  chorus,  all  three,  under  the 
windows  at  supper-time  to-night,  and  on  going 
out  I  found  Karl  and  Koland  (K.  aged  nine,  R. 


1861]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  23 

aged  three)  beating  each  other  with  barrel  staves. 
Highly  agreeable  and  salutary  performance,  but 
disagreeably  noisy  with  "  company  "  on  hand. 

We  find  an  early  note  written  to  her  pub 
lisher,  Mr.  Fields,  at  about  this  period,  —  the 
first  hint  of  her  literary  life  :  — 
I  thank  you 1  very  much  for  the  kind  things  you 
have  said  about  my  little  poem,  and  am  grateful 
for  the  trouble  you  took  in  looking  it  over  and 
making  suggestions.  I  am  sorry  I  could  not  act 
upon  them  all.  I  am  not  good  at  making  alter 
ations.  The  only  merit  of  my  small  produc 
tions  lies  in  their  straightforward  simplicity, 
and  when  that  bloom  is  rubbed  off  by  the  effort 
to  better  them,  they  lose  what  little  good  they 
originally  possessed. 

I  'm  afraid  you  will  not  think  the  unconscious 
quotation  from  the  "Ancient  Mariner"  remedied 
by  the  mere  transposition  of  words,  but  I  cannot 
alter  it  satisfactorily  and  say  what  I  wish.  If 
the  first  and  fifth  verses  do  not  seem  to  you  too 
objectionable,  pray  let  them  pass. 

I  'm  sorry  its  name  is  not  so  felicitous  as 
"Land-Locked,"  which  Mr.  Lowell  christened. 
Pray  pardon  me  for  trespassing  on  your  valu 
able  time,  and  believe  me 

Gratefully  yours,       C.    THAXTER. 
i  To  James  T.  Fields.    Newtonville,  September  23,  1861 


24  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  [1862 

Thanks  for  your l  note.  I  am  just  as  sorry  as 
I  can  be,  that  you  can't  come.  "April,  1863  "  ? 
Why,  by  that  time,  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  will  be  drained  out  of  the  veins  of  the 
nation  and  lost  in  the  war!  Do  you  expect  to 
be  alive  in  April,  1863 1  I  don't.  Very  faintly 
the  spent  wave  of  terrible  news  reached  us  here 
in  this  remote  nook,  till  yesterday.  A  note 
from  Mr.  Weiss  brought  it  all  horribly  in  sight. 
What  carnage,  what  endless  suffering!  It  is 
so  hard  to  realize,  when  the  delicious  days  go 
by,  one  after  one,  so  still  and  full  of  peace.  I 
never  saw  more  perfect  days,  full  of  all  love 
liness;  the  islands  never  seemed  so  charming 
before ! 

I  think  you  are  entirely  right  about  my 
rhymes.  I  should  hardly  have  sent  them,  but 
you  had  surprised  me  by  liking  other  things, 
and  it  seemed  possible  you  might  these.  I 
believe,  I  am  afraid,  I  never  can  put  my  heart 
into  anything  that  doesn't  belong  to  the  sea. 

We  were  sorry  you2  could  not  come  on  Satur 
day.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  day  for  an  expe 
dition, —  cool  and  clear.  Mr.  Thaxter  and  Mr. 
Folsom  took  a  boat  above  the  Upper  Falls  and 

1  To  James  T.  Fields.    Appledore,  September  4,  1862. 

2  To  Annie  Fields.    Newtonville. 


1862J  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  25 

were  gone  till  sunset,  and  I  took  Miss  Mary 
ij'olsom  and  rowed  to  Waltham.  We  contrived 
to  spend  two  long  hours  deliciously  among  the 
lily  pads  and  spikes  of  purple  pickerel-weed, 
explored  a  brook  and  loaded  our  boat  with 
flowers ;  had  altogether  a  charming  time. 

So  let  us  have  next  Saturday  if  it  is  possible, 
will  you  not?  Let  us  know  if  there  is  any 
hope  of  your  coming,  —  perhaps  Mr.  Weiss  may 
be  able  to  come  too.  We  have  had  such  a 
sparkling  and  enchanting  Sunday !  He  preached 
like  one  possessed,  with  a  spirit  of  good,  and 
uttered  aloud  the  awful  word  Slavery,  and  the 
people  were  still  as  death.  The  church  was  full 
to  overflowing. 

The  carryall  would  hardly  hold  the  heaps  of 
flowers;  the  scarlet  poppies  waved  out  of  the 
windows;  the  sweet  peas  fell  to  the  floor  for 
want  of  hands  and  laps  to  hold  them!  Ah, 
these  are  splendid  days! 

The1  leaves  are  falling,  falling,  dry  and  sere 
after  the  sudden  frost,  and  it  looks  pinched  and 
cold  out  of  doors,  and  the  wind  whistles,  and 
we  cluster  about  the  fire  at  nightfall  and  tell 
stories  to  the  children  as  if  it  were  midwinter. 
L  cannot  tell  you  how  I  dread  the  cold !  Were 
1  To  Annie  Fields.  October  23,  1862. 


26  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTEE  [1862 

I  but  a  stork  or  a  swallow !  To  have  the  fields 
locked  up  hard  and  fast,  and  the  snow,  blank, 
stark,  stiff,  glaring,  spread  over  all,  months 
and  months!  It  takes  all  my  philosophy  to 
stand  it  and  keep  my  equilibrium.  I  long  for 
the  light  and  life,  and  ever  shifting  color,  and 
ever  delicious  sound  of  the  faithful  old  sea  more 
in  the  winter  than  in  the  summer.  No  frost  or 
snow  can  extinguish  it. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND:  l  —  I  'm  sorry  I  've  as  yet 
no  prosaic  manuscripts  for  you,  but  I  pray  you 
patience  for  a  little  longer.  Meanwhile  here 
are  some  verses  which  have  been  evolved 
among  the  pots  and  kettles,  to  which  you  're 
welcome,  if  they  're  good  enough  for  you. 
Verses  can  grow  when  prose  can't, 

"  While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot "  ! 
The  rhymes  in  my  head  are  all  that  keep  me 
alive,  I  do  believe,  lifting  me  in  a  half  uncon 
scious  condition  over  the  ashes  heap,  so  that  I 
don't  half  realize  how  dry  and  dusty  it  is!  I 
have  had  no  servant  at  all  for  a  whole  week, 
by  a  combination  of  hideous  circumstances.  I 
wish  you  'd  tell  A.  that  I  have  had  infinite  sat 
isfaction  and  refreshment  out  of  her  tickets  al 
ready,  and  forget  all  weariness  and  perplexity 
1  To  James  T.  Fields.  Newtonville,  October  25. 


1863]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  27 

on  the  crest  of  a  breaker  of  earthly  bliss  while 
Emerson  discourses. 

So  you1  were  one  of  the  "Tenters,"  as  the 
Star  Islanders  call  the  dwellers  in  canvas 
houses.  And  Bayard  Taylor  ?  And  who  was 
the  fair  neighboring  lady  ?  and  was  there  really 
one?  And  was  it  Annie?  What  a  pleasant 
time  it  must  have  been !  How  I  wish  I  could 
have  peeped  at  you  from  without,  and  heard 
the  voice  that  read!  But  I  share  with  the 
world  the  next  best  thing,  "the  Tent  in  type," 
and  am  duly  grateful. 

Thanks,  also,  for  your  note  of  acceptance. 
Here  is  the  snow  again,  just  as  we  were  fairly 
rid  of  the  ice-packs !  It  was  so  blissful  to  see 
the  color  of  the  brown  fields  and  pastures,  like 
a  tawny  lion's  skin  spread  down,  and  now  they 
are  all  stark,  white,  motionless,  mute,  dead,  in 
their  shroud  again.  I  hate  the  snow  with  a 
delightful  fervor;  it  just  means  death  to  me, 
and  nothing  more  or  less.  I  sympathize  with 
the  cats  and  hens,  who  step  across  it,  lifting  up 
their  feet  with  intense  discomfort  and  disappro 
bation,  and  never  walk  on  it  if  I  can  help  it. 
But  it  won't  last  long. 

1  To  James  T.  Fields.    Newtonville,  February  20. 


28  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1865 

When1  the  snow  blows  here  we  are  as  much 
cut  off  from  humanity  as  if  we  lived  in  an  ice 
berg,  afloat  in  the  Polar  seas.  Never  mind, 
stout  hearts  and  firm  wills  conquer  anything 
in  this  world,  and  as  you  say,  we  don't  need 
soft  skies  to  make  friendship  a  joy  to  us. 
What  a  heavenly  thing  it  is;  "world  without 
end,"  truly.  I  grow  warm  thinking  of  it,  and 
should  glow  at  the  thought  if  all  the  glaciers  of 
the  Alps  were  heaped  over  me!  Such  friends 
God  has  given  me  in  this  little  life  of  mine  I 

Aren't  you2  glad  to  begin  to  perceive  a  pros 
pect  of  spring?  it  must  be  so  splendid  with 
you.  The  chicks  have  brought  in  the  most 
splendid  blossoming  maple  boughs,  smelling 
like  honey,  and  cowslips  and  willow  blossoms 
and'  alder  catkins  and  so  on,  but  we  've  found  no 
bloodroot  or  hepaticas  yet.  You  have  the  May 
flower  growing  near  you,  haven't  you?  How 
I  should  like  to  gather  it !  Koland  reverently 
gathered  a  skunk  cabbage  flower  and  carried  up 
to  school  in  West  Newton,  to  the  teacher  of 
botany  in  whose  class  he  was  a  pupil,  and  she 
hove  it  out  of  the  window  with  speed,  said  she 
never  saw  it  before  and  never  wished  to  see  it 

1  To  Annie  Fields.    Newtonville. 

2  To  E.  C.  Hoxie.    Ncwtonville,  April  24 


1867]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  29 

again,  never  even  heard  of  it  and  didn't  want 
to!  There  's  wisdom  for  you!  As  if  it  didn't 
have  its  place  in  creation  and  was  n't  curious 
and  interesting  in  spite  of  its  smell !  Imagine 
Levi's  extreme  disgust!  A  scholar  who  brought 
two  dabby  azalea  blossoms  from  a  greenhouse 
was  welcomed  with  smiles.  Such  is  life.  I 
tied  bones  to  the  trees  this  winter  in  humble 
imitation  of  you,  and  the  birds  came  round  in 
flocks,  to  my  intense  satisfaction.  The  boys 
and  Levi  have  guns  and  go  murdering  round 
the  country  in  the  name  of  science  till  my  heart 
is  broken  into  shreds.  They  are  horribly 
learned,  but  that  doesn't  compensate  for  one 
little  life  destroyed,  in  my  woman's  way  of 
viewing  it. 

DEAR  FRIEND  : l  —  I  have  copied  my  ballad  for 
your  dissecting  knife,  very  hastily,  but  I  hope 
it  is  legible. 

Please  say  to  A.,  with  much  love,  that  we 
had  a  most  charming  time  last  night.  It  was  a 
real  delight  to  see  Mr.  Dickens  and  to  have 
one's  ideal  of  an  individual  so  completely  real 
ized. 

1  To  James  T.  Fields.    Boston,  Monday  Morning,  Janu^ 
ary  6, 1867. 


SO  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER 

This  morning1  the  fishing  boats,  flying  out 
wing-and-wing  before  the  north  wind,  brought 
a  mail,  and  again  I  am  grateful  to  hear  that  all 
are  well  at  home.  This  afternoon  Cedric  took 
a  schooner  and  bounded  away  over  the  long 
waves  to  Portsmouth,  the  wind  being  north 
east,  so  we  hope  for  another  mail  to-morrow. 
This  day  the  weather  has  relented,  and  over  our 
bleak  loneliness  a  softer  sky  has  stooped,  with 
loosely  blown  light  clouds  almost  summerlike. 
To-night  at  sunset  it  was  dead  calm  and  we 
climbed  the  hill  and  sat  by  the  smaller  cairn 
with  all  the  loveliness  spread  out  before  us;  a 
soft  crimson  sunset  intensely  vivid  over  the 
dark  coast  and  the  whole  sea  reflecting  it,  in 
rosy  streaks  near,  and  afar  off  a  long  red  trail 
in  the  water.  The  tide  brimmed  every  cove; 
a  little  ice-bird  swam  in,  shook  himself;  and 
landed  on  a  point  close  by  for  his  supper  of 
blue  mussels,  diving  down  and  coming  up  again 
with  so  much  life  and  vigor  that  it  was  enter 
taining  to  watch  him.  When  we  came  down 
by  Babb's  Cove  the  water  came  in  in  such  a 
beautiful  curve  that  I  was  enchanted.  First 
the  line  was  marked  in  snow,  then  a  few  feet 
below  it  was  drawn  accurately  in  black  sca- 

i  To  John  G.  Whittier.    The  Shoals,  Sunday,  February 
16,  1868. 


1868]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  31 

weed,   then   below  that  came  the  living  water 
itself,  the  "wan  water,"  the  melodious  water! 

Oscar  and  I  have  just  been  leaning  out  of 
the  window  watching  the  planet  Venus,  bright 
as  a  young  moon,  throwing  "into  the  ocean 
faint  and  far"  "the  trail  of  its  golden  splen 
dor,"  and  listening  to  the  rote  which  bodes  a 
storm,  though  the  water  is  like  glass.  This 
sound  we  knew  came  from  the  bight  of  Little 
Island,  as  we  tried  to  disentangle  the  separate 
sounds  wound  into  one  hollow  roar;  that  from 
Cannon  Point,  where  now  and  then  a  sleepy 
breaker  rolled;  but  the  body  of  sound  came 
from  the  east  and  just  like  a  great  shell  held 
to  your  ear  it  seemed.  It  does  have  the  most 
wonderful  effect  on  the  human  imagination ;  long 
before  I  read  "The  Lotos  Eaters,"  listening  to 
it  I  felt  as  if  all  things  were  dreams  and  shad 
ows.  It  makes  one  careless  of  life;  it  lulls 
alike  all  joy  and  pain;  it  dulls  our  senses  till 
we  are  ready  to  cry  indeed,  "there  is  no  joy 
but  calm  " !  The  northeast  wind  has  swept  out 
of  the  upper  cove  the  thick  crust  of  ice,  and 
left  it  clear.  Dear  friend,  you  would  hardly 
know  the  place!  This  long  piazza,  up  and 
down  which  Youth  and  Romance  were  wont  to 
meander  through  the  summer  evenings,  is  filled 
with  snow  from  one  end  to  the  other  and  trav- 


32  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1868 

ersed  occasionally  by  the  cows  and  sheep;  the 
little  garden  which  kept  me  in  roses  so  long 
last  summer,  and  whose  golden  and  flame-col 
ored  flowers  seemed  trying  to  outblaze  the  sun, 
is  but  a  heap  of  snow  and  desolation.  How 
the  poppies  nodded  their  scarlet  heads  between 
the  rails,  and  how  sweet  was  the  perfume  from 
the  mignonette,  and  how  good  you  were  to  let 
me  put  flowers  in  your  buttonhole!  Dear  me, 
what  a  crowd  of  reminiscences !  Now,  in  front 
of  the  house,  the  poor  Pilgrim  (the  largest 
yacht,  which  went  ashore  last  fall  and  nearly 
stove  to  pieces)  is  hauled  up  for  repairs,  and  to 
shelter  her  against  the  weather  is  draped  with 
a  melancholy  gray  old  sail,  a  ragged  piece  of 
canvas  that  flaps  in  every  breeze ;  not  a  boat  on 
the  moorings  where  the  tiny  fleet  tossed  like 
eggshells;  and  the  landing  where  so  many  ten 
der  greetings  passed  is  torn  plank  from  plank 
and  flung  to  the  right  and  the  left  with  a  ven 
geance!  Every  year  it  is  torn  away  and  has 
to  be  rebuilt. 

Tuesday,  18th.  The  storm  has  come  and 
gone  and  left  us  powdered  with  fresh  snow, 
but  otherwise  none  the  worse  for  it.  I  have 
sewed  so  steadily  on  gowns  and  caps  and  femi 
nine  paraphernalia  that  I  richly  deserved  the 
fit  of  neuralgia  in  my  head  and  eyes  that  made 


1868]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  33 

me  lose  a  whole  day.  I  wish  I  were  n't  in  the 
habit  of  going  at  everything  with  such  a  fury ! 
I  had  a  dear,  long,  lovely  letter  from  Lucy 
Larcom.  I  do  think  she  is  a  heavenly  body ! 
a  true  woman. 

It  is  quite  moderate  to-day,  lovely  vanishing 
greens  and  blues  and  violets  in  among  the  toss 
ing  waves;  a  kinder  sky,  clear  blue  and  soft. 
We  hung  the  parrot  out  at  the  door  and  she 
imitated  the  whole  flock  of  sheep  and  the  cows 
and  ducks  and  hens  gathered  within  her  ken, 
and  ordered  the  horse  about  imperatively.  She 
likes  to  be  out  in  the  sun,  but  when  she  grew 
tired  she  called  me,  "Celia!  Celia!  "  till  we  took 
her  in.  Then  she  said  "God  love  that  girl!" 
as  she  hears  Oscar  say.  She  is  too  weird  for 
this  world!  How  you  must  miss  Charlie! 
This  bird  is  worth  half  a  dozen  people  for  en 
tertainment.  She  flew  away,  while  mother  was 
gone  last  autumn,  over  to  Star,  and  the  island 
ers,  taking  her  for  a  hawk,  were  about  to  shoot 
her,  when  she  called  loud  and  clear,  "  Cedric !  " 
and  just  saved  herself.  I  really  think  she  was 
glad  to  see  me.  I  'm  sure  I  was  glad  to  see 
her! 

February  is  vanishing  fast.  How  soon  the 
alders  and  willows  will  blossom !  Do  you  know 
the  thermometer  hasn't  been  below  zero  here 


34  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER 

once  this  winter  ?  But  oh,  the  blustering  and 
incorrigible  winds!  the  storms,  the  snow,  the 
blackness  and  bleakness  of  things ! 

This  morning  we  woke  to  a  dreary  sifting  of 
snow,    but  it  cleared  off  early  and  the  ragged 
scud  went  flying  east,  leaving  a  stainless  blue 
clean  swept   by  the  southwest  wind.      Whiter 
than  snow  the   coasters   have   crossed   and   re- 
crossed  our  little  space  of  heaven-colored  sea  to 
the  east  the  whole  day  long.      At  noon  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door,  which  I  opened,  and 
behold  a  fossil !  a  mummy !  in  other  words  an 
ancient    Star    Islander   carrying  a  pail   to  get 
some  milk  for  some  sick  woman.      Anything  so 
grizzled  and  overgrown  with  the  moss  of  ages  I 
never  beheld!     I  placed  a  chair  for  him  and 
mother    said,    "Do    you    know    who    it    is?" 
"Ya'as,"    he    said,    "I    know    Mr.    Thaxter's 
wife,7'  but  I  didn't  know  him.      They  call  him 
"Shothead,"  but  his  real  name  is  Eandall,  as 
everybody's  is  who  isn't  Caswell.      (Well,  that 
is  a  wonderful  sentence!)      What  the  original 
color  of  the  creature  was  we  could  not  guess. 
I  fancy  he  never  fell  overboard  or  was  caught 
in  a  shower,  and  any  other  application  of  water 
I  doubt  if  he  ever  tried.      But  he  had  a  sweet 
expression  in  his  old  blue  eyes,  a  kind  of  child 
ish  look,  as  he  retailed  the  news  from  Star.      I 


1868]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  35 

asked  him  how  they  got  on  with  Mr.  Blank, 
the  minister.  He  laughed  a  laugh  of  scorn. 
"Blank!"  said  he,  "he  ain't  no  good  to  no 
body,  no  Doctor,  no  minister,  no  schoolmaster 
nuther.  He  took  the  five  hundred  dollars  he 
got  from  the  gentlemen  over  here  last  summer 
to  repair  the  meeting-house,  and  has  been  up  to 
Concord  a  spending  on  't  all  winter!  "  It  seems 
that  he  put  in  two  windows  for  the  "meeting 
house  "and  that's  all.  I'm  rather  glad  he 
did  n't  pull  the  old  house  to  pieces,  for  the  beams 
in  it  were  rescued  from  the  wreck  of  a  Spanish 
ship  as  long  ago  as  the  oldest  inhabitant  can  re 
member.  The  husband  of  the  sick  woman,  who 
borrowed  the  Lone  Star  to  go  for  the  doctor, 
came  over, —  a  stalwart  fellow  in  the  prime  ot 
life,  thickset,  well-made,  with  most  beautiful 
large  clear  hazel  eyes,  a  Nova  Scotian,  settled 
many  a  year  at  Star.  He  was  so  grateful  for 
the  boat!  He  brought  over  a  whole  dory  load 
of  fresh  fish. 

I  had  a  splendid  mail  to-day,  five  letters, 
some  very  unexpected  epistles,  but  I  did  not 
hear  from  you,  therefore  I  was  a  little  bit  dis 
appointed,  being  a  woman  and  necessarily  un 
reasonable.  My  spouse  writes,  "Katy  [that 
is  our  Hibernian]  does  bravely  "  and  "  I  shall 
not  expect  you  yet."  Isn't  he  good?  Mother 


36  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1868 

says,  "A  few  days  longer;  you  know  you'll 
never  have  another  mother  and  I  shall  not  be 
here  long,"  so  I  linger  and  linger,  but  must 
soon  go,  some  time  next  week.  I  wish  I 
weren't  going  to  set  foot  off  the  island  till  next 
December!  L.  says  he  went  to  a  ball  unto 
which  we  were  invited  after  I  came  away,  the 
most  prodigious  affair  of  the  kind  ever  given  in 
Boston;  the  flowers  alone  cost  fifteen  hundred 
dollars,  with  Crete  crying  out  to  us,  and  the 
freedmen  suffering,  and  the  poor  children  in  the 
streets  of  Boston  barefoot  and  squalid ! 

Thursday  morning.  A  really  beautiful  day; 
the  coast  has  really  got  its  feet  in  the  water  at 
last!  Po  Hill  is  no  longer  hanging  between 
heaven  and  earth,  like  Mahomet's  coffin,  but 
has  settled  down  like  a  decorous  hill,  behind 
Boar's  Head,  which  stands  out  like  a  fort  of 
snow  in  the  morning  light.  Everything  smiles 
and  dances  and  sings  for  joy,  and  oh,  to  be  a 
great  gull  floating  aloft  in  the  pure  air ! 

You  know,  my  dear  Anson,1  how  much  hasty 
pudding  must  be  made  in  a  family  of  growing 
boys,  and  how  many  vile  old  trousers  and  shirts 
and  duds  have  to  be  darned  in  more  senses  than 
one,  by  the  mother  of  a  family.  So  I  hope 
l  To  Anson  Hoxie.  Newtonville,  June  17,  1868. 


18G8]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  37 

you  '11  be  charitable,  for  I  've  been  loving  you 
just  as  much  all  the  time  as  if  I  had  written 
a  volume.  Well,  how  do  you  do,  this  beautiful 
weather,  you  dear  thing  1  Is  n't  it  beautiful  to 
have  real  hot  summer  days  at  last1?  How  are 
all  the  gold  robins  and  sparrows  and  catbirds 
and  chickadees  and  woodpeckers  and  bluebirds 
and  blackbirds  and  kingbirds  and  humming 
birds  and  things  ?  Has  the  gold  robin  hatched 
her  brood  ?  Did  she  take  the  black  horsehair, 
after  all?  Don't  you  think,  we  had  a  wind  that 
was  like  the  hurricane  of  the  desert,  the  other 
day,  hot  and  strong  and  long.  A  little  chip- 
ping-sparrow  had  built  her  dainty  nest  in  the 
cherry-tree  outside  my  western  chamber  win 
dow,  within  reach  of  my  hand,  and  as  I  sat 
there  sewing  I  could  watch  her  going  and  com 
ing,  and  it  was  more  lovely  than  tongue  can 
tell.  Well,  this  preposterous  gale  blew  and 
blew  and  blew  till  the  cows  came  home,  and 
blew  all  night  besides,  as  if  its  only  earthly 
aim  and  object  was  to  destroy  every  living 
thing  in  its  way.  It  blew  the  dear  little  nest 
with  its  pretty  blue  eggs  clean  away  out  of 
sight;  we  found  the  remains  in  the  hedge  next 
day.  And  a  dear  purple  finch's  nest  and  eggs 
shared  the  same  fate;  the  finches  had  built  in 
a  little  cedar  by  the  fence.  I  was  so  sorry  I 


38  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER 

Lots  of  nests  were  blown  away  all  about.  I 
hope  gold  robin  held  fast  to  the  elm-tree  down 
at  Gammer's,  if  that  senseless  wind  went  roar 
ing  and  raving  down  to  Newburyport,  as  I  sup 
pose  it  did.  Did  the  yellow  bird  build  in  the 
currant  bushes?  I'm  so  anxious  to  know! 
When  I  went  over  to  Amesbury  that  day  I  left 
you,  a  ruby-throated  humming-bird  was  flutter 
ing  among  Mr.  Whittier's  pear-trees  all  day. 
I  wondered  if  he  were  the  same  one  you  and 
mamma  and  I  watched  that  heavenly  afternoon 
before,  when  we  sat  by  the  pleasant  open  win 
dow  with  the  daffys  underneath  and  the  birds 
going  and  coming.  Oh,  I  must  tell  you,  that 
the  chip-sparrow  whose  nest  blew  away  built 
again  in  an  elm-tree  the  other  side  of  the  house. 
Mr.  Thaxter  and  Lony  have  been  gone  three 
days,  and  I  milk  the  cow  and  she  is  tied  to  an 
apple-tree,  and  what  do  you  think  she  does? 
She  's  as  frisky  as  a  kitten,  so  all  the  time  1  'in 
milking  she  goes  round  and  round  the  tree  and 
I  after  her,  and  it 's  a  spectacle  enough  to  kill 
the  cats,  it 's  so  ridiculous.  I  suppose  Margie 
is  at  the  Mills  by  this  time,  and  what  good  times 
you  must  have  with  the  children!  I  gave 
lovely  "little  black  Gammer"  to  Margie  to 
carry  back  to  your  dearest  of  dear  mammas.  I 
hope  she  got  it  safely.  Please  tell  her  how 


1869]  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  39 

much  obliged  to  her  I  am.  Tell  her  I  've  just 
got  through  wrestling  with  the  dragon  of  house- 
cleaning  and  have  succeeded  in  felling  him  to 
the  earth,  whereat  my  soul  rejoices  with  an  ex 
ceeding  great  joy.  You  can  also  inform  her  pri 
vately  that  I  love  her  to  distraction. 

Did  you  get  two  magazines  I  sent  you? 
Lony  was  much  pleased  with  his  marble  and 
his  bluebirds,  which  you  sent,  and  thanks  you 
much. 

Did  you l  know  Karl  and  I  are  moored  here  for 
seven  months?  Such  is  the  remarkable  fact, 
and  Levi,  Lony,  and  John  are  gone  down  to 
Jacksonville,  or  rather  to  the  state  of  Florida 
generally  and  promiscuously,  with  powder  and 
shot  by  the  ton,  and  arsenic  and  plaster  ditto, 
and  camp-kettle  and  frying-pan  and  coffee-pot 
and  provisions  and  rubber  blankets  and  a  tent, 
and  a  boat,  and  three  guns,  and  a  darkey  to 
be  obtained  upon  arriving  at  Jacksonville,  and 
heaven  only  knows  what  besides.  They  are  to 
steam  down  to  Enterprise  and  then  take  their 
boat  on  to  the  lakes  at  the  end  of  the  St. 
John's  River,  and  then  row  back  in  their  boat, 
shooting  all  the  crocodiles,  parrakeets,  mocking 
birds,  herons,  flamingoes,  white  ibises  an<7 
1  To  E.  C.  Hoxie.  Appledore,  March  7,  1869. 


40  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1869 

every  other  creature,  feathered  or  otherwise, 
that  chances  to  fall  in  their  way,  until  they 
stop  in  St.  Augustine,  and  then  return  (going 
to  see  Bob  on  their  way,  if  possible)  sometime 
in  May  and  stop  here  for  a  while  to  examine  the 
windfall  of  birds  killed  by  the  lighthouse  in 
the  spring,  and  then  they  are  to  pursue  their 
way  up  north,  to  Nova  Scotia  or  the  coast  of 
Labrador,  still  to  pursue  the  unwary  sea  fowl 
and  cure  the  skin  thereof  and  bring  it  as  a  trib 
ute  to  the  feet  of  Science!  Meanwhile  Karl 
and  I  remain  here,  moored  for  seven  months. 
Our  house  is  let  and  we  're  houseless  and  home 
less.  When  the  Mayflower  is  in  blossom  I 
purpose  skimming  across  the  water  and  seeking 
you  on  one  side  and  friend  Whittier  on  the 
other  side  of  the  broad  and  meandering  Merri- 
mac,  and  making  a  flying  call  on  you  both. 
You  might  think  I  should  have  plenty  of  time, 
but  you  don't  know  how  busy  I  am  obliged  to 
be,  and  as  for  pen  and  ink  I  'm  free  to  confess 
I  hate  the  sight  of  it.  Living  on  a  desolate 
island  is  the  busiest  life!  And  as  for  the  piles 
of  sewing  I  've  got  to  do  for  myself,  and  the 
caps  and  gowns  I  've  got  to  make  up  for  my 
mammy  and  the  linen  for  house,  it 's  enough  to 
make  the  spirit  of  mortal  quail  before  it. 


LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  41 

I l  saw  the  tiger  when  William  Hunt  first 
sketched  it,  pinned  up  against  the  parlor  wall, 
which  was  like  a  wondrous  scrapbook,  full  of 
graceful  and  powerful  bits  of  drawing  and  all 
sorts  of  odds  and  ends  that  nobody  else  would 
think  of  perpetuating.  You  saw  the  cactus 
flowers?  He  showed  me  the  thick  charcoal 
stump  with  which  he  drew  these  marvelous 
white  blooms,  so  fresh,  crisp,  delicate,  so  liv 
ing!  Ah,  he  has  the  immortal  spark  if  ever 
mortal  had  it !  I  never  saw  anything  like  the 
pathos  he  puts  into  human  faces,  —  anything  on 
canvas,  I  mean. 

I've  thought  of  you  tossing  on  the  "wind- 
obeying  deep  "  this  last  fortnight,  and  of 

as  profoundly  miserable.  I  remember  how  he 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the  sea.  You  must 
have  arrived  by  this.  Well !  Does 

"The  chaffinch  sing  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  now  "  ? 

and  do  you  hear  the  wise  thrush  that  sings 
each  song  twice  over 

"  Lest  3'ou  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture  "  ? 

If  you  don't  hear  the  thrush  perhaps  you  '11 
see  the  man  who  wrote  about  him,  which  will 

i  To  Annie  Fields.    Appledore,  Isles  of  Shoals,  May  4 
18G9. 


42  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1869 

perhaps  be  better.  That  is  another  man  with 
all  his  wits  about  him,  "duly  alive  and  aware." 
What  vitality  in  all  his  words,  what  splendid 
power!  After  all,  there  is  no  one  quite  so  sat 
isfying  to  the  human  mind,  and  no  one  ever 
wearies  of  his  worthiest  speech  any  more  than 
of  Shakespeare's.  .  .  . 

Miss  Shepard,  who  has  lived  in  Salem  all 
her  days  and  knows  the  Hawthorne  people 
well,  says  it  was  Mall  Street  and  not  Oliver  in 
which  he  wrote  the  "Scarlet  Letter."  It  seems 
the  poem  Hawthorne  liked  best  among  all  the 
shorter  pieces  of  modern  writers  was  "The 
Grave,"  written  by  the  authoress  of  "Paul  Fer- 
roll."  Do  you  know  the  poem?  Miss  Shep 
ard  has  sent  to  Miss  Hawthorne  to  obtain  it 
for  me,  and  if  you  have  n't  it,  if  Miss  H.  (who 
is  an  uncertain  and  eccentric  body)  sends  it  to 
me,  I  will  gladly  give  it  to  you.  He  thought 
it  the  most  powerful  thing  in  modern  poetry. 
I  never  heard  of  it. 

I  wonder  if  you  1  care  to  know  how  the  great 
Beethoven  looked!  Even  if  you  don't,  I  think 
the  picture  is  interesting  as  a  fine  type  of 
humanity,  and  I  crave  permission  to  add  it  to 
your  collection  of  photographs.  How  strange 
i  To  John  G.  Whittier 


1870]  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  43 

it  is  that  the  greatest  musician  the  world  has 
ever  seen  should  have  been  deaf  to  his  own 
marvelous  work  and  shut  out  from  all  sounds ! 
Doesn't  he  look  like  a  splendid  old  German 
lion,  with  a  northeast  hurricane  in  his  hair !  I 
haven't  words  to  tell  you  how  I  admire  him 
and  his  uplifting  music. 

I  had  such  a  happy  time  at  Amesbury !    And 
I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart. 

Your 1  letter  came  this  morning  and  I  can't  tell 
you  how  sad  it  made  me.  I  wish  I  knew  what 
could  be  done,  wish  we  had  some  plan  of  our 
own,  wish  we  could  join  forces  and  do  some 
thing,  and  Levi  does  so  most  heartily ;  but  we 
have  no  plans  even  for  the  next  weeks  just 
ahead,  only  that  he  must  get  away  as  quickly 
as  he  can.  I  don't  see  but  we  have  got  to 
become  a  kind  of  human  shuttlecocks  and  bat 
tledores,  for  Levi  must  go  south  in  the  winter 
and  fly  north  in  the  summer,  from  rheumatism 
in  winter  and  from  fever  and  ague  in  summer. 
He  has  been  slowly  gaining  strength,  but  is  far 
from  well,  and  this  morning  began  with  an 
other  threatening  of  rheumatism  which  troubles 
me  and  makes  me  feel  very  anxious  to  have 
1  To  E.  C.  Hoxie.  Newtonville,  January  24, 1870. 


44  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [187C 

him  off.  He  and  Lony  are  to  go  together, 
they  don't  know  where,  perhaps  St.  Augustine. 
Did  I  tell  you  John  is  to  live  with  the  Folsoms 
in  Dedham,  and  Karl  and  I  go  to  the  island  at 
present  at  least?  Levi  means  to  come  home 
in  May,  or  just  as  soon  as  it  is  warm  enough. 
Then  heaven  knows  where  he  .will  go  or  what 
we  shall  do,  but  something  will  have  to  be 
arranged  for  next  winter.  "Come  home"  I 
say, — there  won't  be  any  more  home,  which 
makes  me  feel  forlorn. 

What  a  charming  letter  is  this  of  yours 1  about 
Mrs.  Gold  Robin  and  the  blazing  Pyrus  full  of 
humming-birds !  How  glad  I  am  Anson  likes 
his  magazine,  dear,  charming  little  fellow  that 
he  is  I  If  I  live  to  be  ten  thousand  years  old  I 
never  shall  forget  his  sudden  appearance  before 
me  as  I  sat  in  the  cars,  bound  for  Amesbury ; 
the  fascination  of  his  half  shy,  half  uncertain 
attitude,  his  little  slender  figure,  his  bright 
head  and  enchanting  smile.  He  is  among  the 
sweetest  of  the  children  that  I  know,  and  I  am 
glad  to  remind  him  pleasantly  of  me. 

While  you  were  writing  last  Sunday  what  a 
lovely  day  it  was,  to  be  sure !     I  was  scribbling 
by  this  heavenly  western  window,  for  the  sound 
1  To  E.  C,  Hoxie.    Appledore,  May  19, 1870. 


1873]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  45 

of  the  ebbing  tide  was  too  delicious.  I  think 
George  Curtis 's  lines  are  most  lovely.  Down 
they  go  into  my  extract  book !  Thank  you  for 
sending  them. 

We l  have  been  here  a  week,  Karl  and  I,  but 
such  things  have  happened  I  feel  as  if  it  were 
years.  You  know,  I  suppose,  from  the  news 
papers,  of  the  horrid  murder  at  Smutty-nose. 
Those  dear,  lovely  Norwegian  people  had  a  set 
tlement  over  there;  there  was  John  Hontvet 
and  his  wife  Marie,  and  Karen  Christiansen, 
Marie's  sister,  and  Ivan  Christiansen  her  bro 
ther,  and  Anethe  his  wife;  the  two  had  been 
married  but  a  year  and  only  came  from  Norway 
last  fall.  Anethe,  everybody  says,  was  a  regu 
lar  fair  beauty,  young  and  strong,  with  splen 
did  thick  yellow  hair,  so  long  she  could  sit  on 
it.  Both  husbands,  John  and  Ivan,  were  de 
votedly  fond  of  their  wives,  and  their  little 
home  was  so  bright  and  happy  and  neat  and 
delightful  they  never  ceased  congratulating 
themselves  upon  having  found  such  a  place  to 
live  in.  Louis  Wagner,  the  Prussian  devil 
who  murdered  them,  had  lived  with  them  all 
summer,  but  was  in  Portsmouth  working  at 
nothing  in  particular  for  the  last  month  (those 
1  To  Elizabeth  D.  Pierce.  Shoals,  March  11, 1873 


46  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1873 

three  women  had  been  heavenly  good  to  him, 
nursed  him  in  sickness,  and  supposed  him  to  be 
a  friend).  The  two  husbands  went  to  Ports 
mouth  Tuesday  to  sell  their  fish,  leaving  the 
three  women,  as  they  often  had  done  before, 
alone,  as  we  on  this  island  have  often  been. 
In  Portsmouth  they  found  Louis  and  asked 
him  to  come  baiting  trawls  with  them.  He  pre 
tended  assent,  but  knowing  the  three  women 
had  been  left  alone  and  thinking  Karen,  who 
had  just  left  mother's  service,  had  money  with 
her,  he  took  a  dory  and  rowed  twelve  miles  out 
here  in  the  calm  night  lit  by  a  young  moon, 
landed  on  Smutty  a  little  after  midnight,  broke 
'Vto  the  house  in  the  dark  and  hacked  and 
^ewed  those  poor  women  till  he  killed  two  of 
them  by  sheer  force  of  blows,  chopping  off 
Anethe's  ear  and  smashing  her  skull.  She  had 
twenty  wounds  where  he  had  blundered  at  her 
haphazard,  in  the  dark!  Marie  told  me  ail 
about  it.  She  heard  him  first  at  Karen,  rushed 
to  see  what  was  the  matter,  got  three  blows 
herself  and  a  bruise  on  the  jaw  from  a  chair  he 
flung  at  her  when  she  fled,  fastening  the  door 
behind  her,  into  Anethe's  room.  She  shook 
and  roused  the  poor  girl  out  of  the  deep  heavy 
sleep  of  youth,  and  throwing  some  clothes  over 
her,  made  her  get  out  of  the  window,  Louis 


1875]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  47 

thundering  at  the  door  all  the  time  to  get  in. 
In  vain  Marie  cried  "Run,  run,  Anethe,  foi 
your  life !  "  Utterly  bewildered  and  dazed,  poor 
little  Anethe  cried,  "I  cannot  move  one  step," 
and  with  that  Louis  came  rushing  out  of  the 
house  round  the  corner,  and  Marie  saw  him  kill 
Aiiethe  with  many  blows,  felling  her  to  the 
earth.  She  rushed  back  to  Karen  and  tried  to 
pull  her  out  of  the  house,  begging  her  to  come 
and  save  herself,  but  poor  Karen,  half  dead 
with  blows,  cried  only  "I  too  tired,"  and  Louis 
coming  back  Marie  leaped  from  the  other  win 
dow  and  ran  for  her  life.  He  struck  at  her 
with  the  axe  as  she  leaped  and  drove  it  deep 
into  the  window  ledge.  Having  to  finish 
Karen,  he  delayed  long  enough  for  poor  Marie 
to  get  off  among  the  rocks.  The  little  dog, 
Einga,  was  barking  wildly  all  the  time.  He 
followed  Marie  and  was  really  the  means  of 
saving  her  life,  for  but  for  him  she  would  have 
crept  under  one  of  the  old  fish-houses  to  hide, 
but  she  knew  his  barking  would  betray  her. 
Next  day  the  devil's  bloody  footsteps  were 
found  all  round  the  old  buildings  where  he  had 
searched  for  her  everywhere.  Barefooted,  in 
her  nightgown,  over  the  snow  and  ice  and 
rough  rocks  she  fled  with  the  little  Einga, 
down  on  the  uttermost  end  of  the  island,  crept 


48  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1873 

into  a  hole  and  hid.  The  moon  was  just  setting 
as  she  went ;  and  there  she  stayed  till  morning, 
and  dared  not  move  till  the  sun  was  high,  hug 
ging  Ringa  to  keep  herself  alive.  Louis  mean 
while  finished  Karen  by  strangling  her,  sought 
Marie  in  vain,  took  his  boat  and  rowed  to  Ports 
mouth  again,  arrived  there  in  the  first  sweet 
tranquil  blush  of  dawn,  a  creature  accursed,  a 
blot  on  the  face  of  the  day.  A  heavenly  day 
it  was,  calm,  blue,  and  fair;  poor  Marie  with 
her  torn  tender  feet  crawled  round  to  Malaga 
opposite  Ingebertsen's  house,  and  signaled  and 
screamed  till  at  last  they  saw  her,  and  what 
was  good  old  Ingebertsen's  astonishment  when 
he  went  for  her,  to  see  her  in  her  nightdress, 
all  bruised  and  bloodstained,  with  her  feet  all 
bleeding  and  frozen.  "Who  has  done  it?"  he 
kept  asking  and  she  only  could  answer  at  last, 
"Louis,  Louis,  Louis."  I  went  over  to  see  her 
at  his  house  (on  our  island,  you  know).  She 
clasped  my  hands,  crying:  "Oh,  I  so  glad  to 
see  you !  Oh,  I  so  glad  I  saved  my  life !  " 
Poor  thing,  she  tried  hard  to  save  the  others. 
The  two  husbands  arrived  just  after  Marie  had 
been  taken  to  Ingebertsen's.  When  they  went 
into  their  house  and  saw  that  unspeakable  sight 
they  came  reeling  out  and  fell  flat  down  in  the 
snow.  A  watch  had  to  be  set  over  Ivan  lest 


1873]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  49 

he  should  destroy  himself.  Anethe,  his  pre 
cious  little  wife,  was  so  lovely.  Oscar  was  so 
impressed  with  her  beauty.  We  begged  her  to 
come  over  as  often  as  she  could,  it  was  such  a 
pleasure  to  look  at  her ! 

You  can't  imagine  how  shocked  and  solem 
nized  we  have  all  been.  Oscar  walks  up  and 
down,  now  ejaculating,  "Oh  poor,  poor  things, 
and  Anethe  so  beautiful,  so  beautiful !  "  Karen 
was  quite  one  of  the  family  here;  it  was  she  of 
whom  I  wrote  the  little  spinning  ballad,  you 
know.  Now  I  'm  afraid  these  dear  people  will 
all  bo  frightened  away  from  here  and  no  more 
will  come. 

Wednesday,  March  12.  To-day,  dear,  I  got 
your  sweet  little  note.  Ever  so  many  thanks 
for  it.  Lots  of  newspapers  came  with  such  dis 
tracted  accounts  of  the  murder  that  it  is  enough 
to  make  anybody  sick.  As  if  a  Star  Islander 
did  it !  If  they  do  not  hang  that  wretch,  law  is 
a  mockery. 

Perhaps  you1  don't  know  that  I  am  a  fixture 
here  for  the  winter.  My  mother  has  been  so 
poorly  I  could  not  leave  her,  and  she  would  not 
leave  my  brothers,  so  I  must  leave  my  family 
to  take  care  of  themselves,  and  stay  with  her, 
l  To  Feroline  W.  Fox.  Shoals,  November  13, 1873. 


50  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1873 

for  our  family  is  so  destitute  of  women  it  is 
really  forlorn!  No  sisters,  daughters,  aunts, 
cousins,  nothing  but  a  howling  wilderness  of 
men!  So  it  all  comes  on  my  shoulders.  I 
would  fain  unite  the  duties  of  existence  and 
have  my  mother  at  home  with  me,  but  alas, 
fate  has  arranged  it  otherwise,  and  here  we  are 
imprisoned  as  completely  as  if  we  were  in  the 
Bastille,  a  mail  perhaps  once  in  a  fortnight, 
and  the  demoniacal  northwest  wind  mounting 
guard  over  us  day  and  night,  and  howling  like 
ten  thousand  raving  fiends.  My  feeling  of 
personal  spite  against  the  northwest  is  some 
thing  vindictive  and  venomous  in  the  extreme. 
I  'd  like  to  blot  it  off  the  compass.  The  only 
thing  I  can  do  is  to  turn  my  back  on  it  and  try 
to  forget  it;  try  to  forget  there  is  such  a  place 
as  out  of  doors  at  all,  for  the  weather  is  some 
thing  incredible,  and  will  be  from  this  time  to 
next  May.  You  never  would  know  the  place! 
Such  a  senseless,  blustering  cave  of  the  winds ! 
I  suppose  if  the  far-off  continent  did  not  hold 
so  much  that  is  precious  for  me,  I  should  not 
get  so  vexed  with  the  winds  and  waves  that 
prevent  me  from  hearing  from  my  dear  ones. 
I  miss  my  boys  so  much  I  can't  bear  to  think 
of  it.  As  I  said,  you  would  not  know  the  place 
now.  All  the  boats  are  housed,  not  one  on  the 


1873]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  51 

moorings  of  all  the  pretty  fleet,  all  the  familiar 
tops  down,  the  dike  removed  that  kept  the 
water  in  the  basin  of  the  upper  cove,  the  float 
ing  wharf  towed  into  that  basin  and  fastened 
with  chains,  not  a  settee  on  the  wind-swept 
chilly  piazzas;  the  music-room  piled  sky  high 
with  sails  and  traps,  the  eagle  descended  from 
his  perch  on  the  housetop,  even  the  vane  taken 
down,  everything  double-reefed  for  the  hurri 
cane  in  store.  It  is  truty  "remote,  unfriended," 
solitary,  "slow,"  but  nothing  to  what  it  will  be 
when  the  snow  makes  a  bitter  shroud  for  us. 
There  is  n't  a  gracious  color  to  be  seen,  except 
the  flush  of  sunrise,  and  the  faint  sad  rose  tints 
and  sadder  violets  of  sunset,  and  if  you  have 
emerged  into  the  outer  air  the  gale  cuffs  your 
ears  to  that  extent  that  you  feel  personally  ag 
grieved  and  disgusted.  Twenty  weeks  of  blus 
ter  between  us  and  spring!  But  I  wouldn't 
mind  if  we  could  only  have  a  mail  once  a  week. 
I  keep  very  busy  all  the  time.  I  wish  you 
could  see  the  room  into  which  I  took  you  to 
see  my  mother.  I  have  taken  the  plants  in 
hand,  and  really  the  desert  blossoms  like  the 
rose;  ten  windows  full;  they  are  really  splendid. 
A  passion  flower  is  running  round  the  top  at 
the  rate  of  seven  knots  an  hour,  and  I  have 
roses,  geraniums,  clouds  of  pink  oxalis,  abuti- 


52  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1874 

Ion,  and  callas  in  bloom;  every  day  I  spend 
an  hour  over  those  ten  windows.  Polly,  my 
parrot,  hangs  at  one.  I  don't  know  what  we 
should  do  without  her.  She  is  so  funny !  She 
has  learned  my  unfortunate  laugh,  and  she 
keeps  it  up  from  morning  till  night,  peal  upon 
peal,  and,  no  matter  what  may  be  the  state  of 
the  family  temper,  we  must  join  in  it  perforce; 
it  is  irresistible ! 

My  dear  friend,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  affec 
tionately  I  remember  you  and  your  beautiful 
sister.  I  wish  you  would  remember  me  most 
kindly  to  her  and  to  "Carrie"  and  to  your  hus 
band.  If  I  only  were  at  home  I  should  surely 
try  to  find  my  way  to  you  all,  and  look  in  your 
dear  faces  again  speedily.  ...  I  fairly  trem 
ble  when  a  bushel  of  letters  are  turned  out  of 
the  mail-bag  for  me,  and  I  am  afraid  to  touch 
or  look  at  what  I  am  longing  for  so  eagerly. 
Can't  you  understand  how  one  must  feel? 

Nobody  J  knows  how  precious  a  word  of  kind 
ness  is,  coming  across  the  bitter  sea  to  this 
howling  wilderness  of  desolation,  one  lives  so 
much  on  "the  weather"  here;  and  when  all  out 
of  doors  turns  your  deadly  enemy,  it  is  hard 
to  bear.  Oh,  what  do  you  think !  on  the  25th 
l  To  Feroline  W.  Fox.  Appledore,  March  19, 1874. 


1874]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  53 

of  February  I    saw  our  song  sparrows!     Yes, 
really!     I   could    hardly   believe   my   eyes.      I 
heard  the  cry  of  a  bird  and  I  listened,  thinking 
it  was  the  snow  buntings,  whose  sad,  sad  cry 
often  makes  lonelier  our  loneliness,  but  it  was 
repeated,    and  I  said  to  myself,    that  cheerful 
chirp  can  belong  to  nothing  but  the  dear  brown 
bird  I  love ;  and  I  peered  eagerly  about  till  at 
last  I  saw  him  hopping  contentedly  among  the 
snowbanks!      I    don't    think    I    shall    rejoice 
more  if  I  ever  chance  to  see  the  angel  Gabriel's 
plumes  of  burning  gold.      I  could  scarcely  be 
lieve  my  eyes.      I  went  round  and  round  him, 
and  watched  him  till  the  cold  had  nearly  turned 
me  into  a  frozen  effigy.      I  found  his  dear  little 
tracks  all  about  my  little  garden,  where  he  had 
sought  for   any   stray   seeds   that   the   weather 
might  have,  spared.      Thenceforth  I  went  about 
strewing  the  ground  with  crumbs.      The  first  of 
March  a  company  of  them  were   singing,   and 
three  robins  beside,  and  yesterday,  lo !  a  blue 
bird.      What    bliss!     To-day    we    have    been 
swathed  in  a  warm  fog,  the  snow  falls  off,  the 
spring  seems  possible.      I  have  been  wandering 
on  the  beaches,  — unless  I  spend  just  so  much 
time  out  of  doors,  I  get  blue  and  ill,  —  and  gath 
ering  Iceland  moss  for  blanc-mange  for  the  mil 
lion,  because  I  hate  to  be  without  a  purpose. 


54  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1374 

It  takes  Thoreau  and  Emerson  and  their  kind 
to  enjoy  a  walk  for  a  walk's  sake,  and  the 
wealth  they  glean  with  eyes  and  ears.  I  can 
not  enjoy  the  glimpses  Nature  gives  me  half  as 
well,  when  I  go  deliberately  seeking  them,  as 
when  they  flash  on  me  in  some  pause  of  work. 
It  is  like  the  pursuit  of  happiness:  you  don't 
get  it  when  you  go  after  it,  but  let  it  alone 
and  it  comes  to  you.  At  least  this  is  my  case. 
In  the  case  of  the  geniuses  (now  is  that  the 
proper  plural?)  aforesaid,  it  is  different.  So  I 
industriously  filled  my  basket  with  the  pretty, 
wet,  transparent  clusters  lying  all  strewn  about 
the  beach;  but  I  didn't  fail  to  see  how  the 
dampness  brought  out  the  colors  of  stone  and 
shell,  and  to  be  glad  therefor;  and  I  heard  the 
living  ripple  of  the  swiftly  rising  tide  among 
the  ledges  and  boulders,  and  saw  how  it  bub 
bled  and  eddied  up  close  to  the  shore,  for  the 
fog  pressed  in  so  close  one  could  not  see  a  rod 
across  the  calm  surface.  And  I  even  paused 
long  enough  to  address  the  flood  as  it  rushed 
and  sang  almost  round  my  feet.  "0  everlast 
ing,  beautiful  old  eternal  slop !  "  1  said,  and  the 
force  of  language  could  no  farther  go.  And, 
my  basket  being  full,  I  selected  a  formidable 
club  from  the  heaps  of  driftwood  strewing  the 
beach,  and  went  to  the  end  of  the  outermost 


1874]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  55 

ledge  and  began  beating  off  the  thick,  white 
shining  girdle  of  salt-water  ice  that  partially 
clasps  each  island  yet.  I  loosened  large  pon 
derous  masses,  that  fell  with  a  great  splash 
into  the  sea  and  sailed  off  slowly  to  annihila 
tion.  "Go,  go,"  I  cried,  "and  never  come 
back  again !  I  hate  you !  "  and  I  assailed  it  with 
wrath  till  I  had  beaten  the  rock  quite  free,  and 

I  was  tired  enough  to  be  glad  to  sit  down  and 
watch  the  floating  fetters  I  had  cast  loose  as 
they  swam  heavily  away. 

I  send  you  two  or  three  thoughts  of  God, 
out  of  the  great,  rough,  fierce  Atlantic.  Who 
would  think  its  bitter  wrath  and  turn  nit  could 
hide  such  delicate  and  tender  fancies ! 

I l  am  full  of  sadness  and  of  sympathy  over  this 
terrible  disaster.      Hardly  can  I  think  of  any 
thing  else,  and  those  two  dear  people  haunt  my 
little  room,  the  sunny  piazza,  the  little  garden; 
I  see  and  hear  them  everywhere.      How  gentle 
they  were,  how  sweet  and  good  and  noble.     How 
can  we  spare  them,  and  fools  and  knaves  are 
cumbering  the  earth !     I  have  such  a  letter  of 
sorrow  from   S.    C.,    who  grew  so  attached  to 
them  here :   "  That  dear,  splendid  little  doctor ! 
To  think  of  the  cruelty  of  her  tender  body  be- 

i  To  Annie  Fields.    Shoals,  May  20, 1874. 


56  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  tl874 

ing  beaten  on  the  rocks !  "  Ah,  I  wish  the  sea 
would  stop  its  roar,  so  soft  and  far  from  rim  to 
rim  of  this  great  horizon !  It  makes  me  shud 
der  when  I  think  of  them  and  how  it  sounded 
in  their  ears !  How  brave  Mrs.  Greene  is,  sure 
that  all  that  is  must  be  best!  glad  for  them 
that  they  could  go  in  the  midst  of  the  joy  of 
life,  with  all  their  enthusiasm,  spared  all  life's 
disappointments,  safe  from  any  suffering  like 
hers!  She  is  a  marvel.  Yes,  dear,  she  sent 
me  the  little  paper,  writing  my  name  on  it  and 
hers  with  her  own  hand.  And  I  must  write  to 
her,  but  hardly  dare  to  speak. 

I  think  I  shall  not  see  the  mainland  again 
till  autumn,  unless  sickness  summons  me.  It 
is  heavenly  beautiful  here  now,  "so  sweet  with 
voices  of  the  birds,"  so  green  and  still  and 
flower-strewn.  Only  I  am  too  much  alone,  and 
get  sadder  than  death  with  brooding  over  this 
riddle  of  life;  and  Nature  is  so  placid;  and  the 
sea  and  the  rocks  have  ground  the  life  out  of 
those  two  to  whom  life  was  so  sweet.  Oh,  how 
hard  it  must  have  been  to  yield  it  up !  I  can 
see  how  they  looked,  what  they  did,  what  they 
said;  my  imagination  will  not  cease  picturing  it 
alL 


1874]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  57 

Now l  that  the  daily  communication  with  the 
continent  is  at  last  established,  I  feel  so  close 
to  all  my  friends !  Quite  within  reach  of  every 
body,  and  I  am  so  thankful!  I  only  wish  it 
could  last  forever!  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I 
have  enjoyed  the  spring,  how  doubly  beautiful 
every  softening  aspect  of  nature  has  been  to 
me,  after  the  winter's  discontent  and  poverty. 
Really  I  think  the  world  never  began  to  be  so 
beautiful  before !  The  birds  do  sing  so ;  and  as 
for  the  sandpipers,  when  I  hear  them  calling 
in  the  rich  twilights,  it  seems  to  me  that  there 
is  nothing  more  to  be  desired  on  earth.  I  have 
not  seen  one  lilac  spike,  not  one  apple  blossom, 
this  year,  but  I  'd  rather  have  the  sandpipers 
if  I  can't  have  both!  I  hear  the  country  has 
been  radiant  with  blossoms.  Well,  I  am  more 
than  content  with  what  I  have.  I  don't  envy 
you  a  bit.  My  little  garden  sprang  into  such 
life  of  a  sudden;  all  the  seeds  I  planted,  and  a 
million  more  beside,  came  rushing  up  out  of  the 
ground  so  fast  that  I  hardly  knew  how  to  man 
age  them,  and  have  been  obliged  to  throw  away 
enough  flowers  to  stock  half  a  dozen  gardens, 
in  order  to  let  the  remaining  plants  have  room 
to  grow.  Such  mats  of  pansies!  And  that 
flaming  California  poppy  has  spread  every- 
1  To  Feroline  W.  Fox.  Shoals,  June  16, 1874. 


58  LETTERS   OF   CELIA    THAXTER          [1874 

where.  It  breaks  my  heart  to  have  to  pull  up 
a  single  one !  Ranks  of  sweet-peas  I  have,  and 
mignonette  by  the  bushel.  If  I  can  only  keep 
the  weeds  away !  I  wish  I  could  show  you 
my  pretty  awning  on  the  west  piazza,  it  is  so 
gay  and  effective,  with  broad  stripes  of  blue  and 
~vhite  and  edges  of  scarlet.  They  are  cutting  the 
-••rass  on  the  lawn  to-day,  and  the  air  is  so  sweet 
with  land  and  sea  scents ! 

1 l  have  just  made  a  discovery  which  fills  me 
•with  —  "  vexation  "  I  think  would  be  the  proper 
word;  namely,  that  your  son  has  been  here  for 
a  week,  and  I  did  not  know  him  and  nobody 
told  me  he  was  here !  .  .  . 

Dear  friend,  I  have  to  thank  you  for  the 
postal  card  about  planting  the  lilies.  How  good 
you  are  to  me!  Did  Carry  tell  you  I  have 
taken  to  painting, —  "  wrastling  with  art,"  I  call 
it,  in  the  wildest  manner  ?  This  woodbine  leaf 
at  the  top  of  the  first  page  of  this  note  I  copied 
from  nature.  Of  course  it  isn't  very  good,  but 
it  shows  hope  of  better  things,  don't  you  think 
so?  Do  say  you  do!  I  can  scarcely  think  of 
anything  else.  I  want  to  paint  everything  T 
see;  every  leaf,  stem,  seed  vessel,  grass  blade, 
rush,  and  reed  and  flower  has  new  charms,  and 

i  To  Feroline  W.  Fox.    Shoals,  September  22,  1874. 


1874]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  59 

I  thought  I  knew  them  all  before.  Such  a  new 
world  opens,  for  I  feel  it  in  me ;  I  know  I  can 
do  it,  and  I  am  going  to  do  it!  What  a  re 
source  for  the  dreary  winter  days  to  come!  I 
know  you  will  be  glad  for  me. 

See,  I  made  this  red  leaf  for  you *  above.  I 
gathered  it  from  a  wild  vine  that  crimsoned 
over  a  rough  gray  stone,  and  copied  it  as  near 
as  I  could.  Not  very  well,  but  I  have  n't  had 
a  lesson  yet,  and  of  course  one  can't  be  perfect 
in  a  first  effort.  But  do  be  glad  for  me  that  I 
can  do  it,  it  is  such  a  delight,  such  a  resource 
in  the  drear  days  to  come  to  look  forward  to ! 

Tell  me,  is  your  sermon  in  answer  to  Tyn- 
dall's  address  (which,  by  the  way,  I  have  just 
got  hold  of  in  the  "Popular  Science  Monthly," 
and  haven't  yet  read)  to  be  published  any 
where?  And,  if  so,  won't  you  send  it  to  me, 
please  1  Would  I  could  have  heard  it ! 

It  is  lovely  yet  here;  the  little  room  is  so 
cozy,  still  bright  with  flowers  and  firelight,  and 
prettier  yet  for  my  paraphernalia  of  painting, 
and  groups  of  burning  red  and  golden  leaves, 
and  tiny  brown  rushes  and  grasses  and  poppy- 
heads  and  larkspur  spikes,  all  sorts  of  studies 
to  gloat  over.  I  have  made  a  little  vignette  of 
White  Island. 

i  To  John  Weiss.    Shoals,  September  26,  1874. 


60  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1874 

Well,1  the  beautiful  summer  has  gone  at  last, 
and  all  the  dear  people  except  Miss  Parkman, 
who,  faithfullest  of  the  faithful,  would  gladly 
stay  here  all  winter  with  me  if  she  could.  This 
is  the  wildest  wild  night,  —  floods  of  rain  and 
a  hurricane  from  the  stormy  east;  but  here  in 
the  cottage  parlor  the  fire  burns  bright,  the  gas 
fills  the  room  with  light,  the  rich  flowers  glow 
and  send  out  fragrance.  My  davenport  I  have 
wheeled  to  the  fireside.  Karl  and  Miss  Parkman 
are  playing  bdzique  close  by.  The  room  is  so 
charming!  there  are  thirty-two  pictures  in  it 
now.  I  had  such  a  birthday !  No  end  of  pic 
tures  and  things.  It  was  on  the  29th  of  June, 
and  I  was  smothered  with  roses.  How  happy 
I  was !  Oh,  what  a  lovely,  lovely  summer !  I 
must  tell  you  something  nice.  I  have  begun 
to  draw  and  paint,  and  find  I  can  do  it,  even 
without  lessons,  with  more  or  less  success,  so 
that  I  am  sure  that  by  and  by,  after  I  have 
had  some  lessons,  I  can  do  it  well.  It  is  so 
delightful !  I  want  to  paint  everything  I  see. 
It  will  be  such  a  resource  in  winter  loneliness 
to  'come,  for  I  expect  to  spend  the  greater  part 
of  the  winter  here.  Though  my  mother  is  better 
now  than  she  has  been  for  two  years,  I  don't 
dare  to  leave  her  all  alone  with  only  the  ser- 
l  To  Elizabeth  D.  Pierce.  Shoals,  September  29,  1874. 


1874]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  61 

vants  and  my  brothers  in  this  great  loneliness. 
Alas  that  it  should  be  so !  I  do  so  dread  the 
exile,  the  bitter,  long  loneliness.  It  is  only 
the  sense  of  duty  done  that  keeps  one's  head 
above  water  in  such  a  case. 

I  am  so  glad  you  liked  the  little  song.  If 
only  you  could  hear  the  music !  It  is  delicious ; 
and  I  have  just  written  one  called  "  Forebod 
ings,"  which  Mr.  Eichberg  has  also  set  to 
music,  and  which  he  says  is  the  best  thing 
he  has  ever  composed,  which,  considering  the 
beautiful  things  he  has  done,  is  saying  a  great 
deal. 

Your  letter  was  so  pleasant!  Do  write  to 
me  as  often  as  you  can,  and  give  me  a  blink  of 
your  light  and  joy  in  my  white,  stark  desola 
tion  here  in  the  howling  Atlantic. 

I  think  I  did  not  thank  you 1  half  enough  for 
the  address  you  sent,  and  for  your  delightful 
note  about  it.  I  read  Tyndall's  address  twice 
over,  and  yours  also,  with  supreme  satisfaction. 
Will  he  read  what  you  have  said  ?  He  ought 
to  see  it.  What  a  joy  to  find  himself  so  under 
stood  and  appreciated !  I  have  been  extremely 
interested  in  Professor  Huxley's  address  before 
the  British  Association,  which  I  have  in  the 
1  To  John  Weiss.  Shoals,  October  17, 1874. 


62  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1874 

"Living  Age."  There  is  nothing  so  interesting 
to  me  as  this  quarrying  of  bright  minds,  this 
digging  at  the  roots  of  things.  "Your  little 
hatchet, "  —  oh,  what  a  weapon !  swift,  sharp, 
invisible,  resistless.  It  is  like  a  scythe,  as  Mr. 
Eichberg  says;  it  cuts  a  broad  swath  every 
time  you  speak. 

The  little  cottage  is  deserted  now,  and  I  have 
turned  the  key  on  that  dear  loneliness.  The 
pictures  look  down  in  stillness;  the  vases  are 
empty,  the  books  unopened;  no  fire  blazes  on 
the  hearth;  not  even  a  fly  buzzes  in  the  win 
dow;  it  is  desolate!  But  outside  the  little 
garden  blooms,  still  full  of  color  and  fragrance, 
for  no  sign  of  frost  has  fallen  upon  us  yet.  I 
have  moved  to  mother's  room.  Through  the 
ten  windows  the  sun  streams  delightfully  in 
clear  days,  and  everything  grows  and  blooms. 
Every  day  the  doves  flock  in  at  the  door,  over 
the  threshold,  to  be  fed,  and  little  brown  song 
sparrows  come  too,  and  hop  over  the  floor,  as 

tame  as  chickens.      Your  E is  pretty  well, 

but  every  time  the  thermometer  goes  down,  hex 
strength  and  spirits  go  with  it.  The  cold  de 
stroys  her.  I  dread  the  winter  with  an  inex 
pressible  dread. 


1874]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  63 

You  l  have  "no  news,  nothing  to  communicate," 
and  you  tell  me  this  delightful  story  of  Tyn~ 
dalPs  gladness,  which  makes  me  glow  with  joy. 
Well  may  he  be  glad  and  proud!  Oh,  why 
cannot  I  always  hear  you,  I  wonder!  I  wish 
for  it  most  ardently.  For  God  leads  you  up  to 
the  heights,  and  you  call  us  up  to  you. 

No  wonder  Tyndall  took  your  "discourse  to 
bed,  but  not  to  sleep  " !  Your  note  has  made 
this  dull  day  of  November  warm  and  bright. 
Be  sure  no  human  creature  rejoices  in  your  joy 
more  sincerely,  with  more  loving  enthusiasm, 
than  your  grateful  CELIA  THAXTER. 

My  dear  boy,2  I  miss  "people  and  things" 
very  much  in  my  solitude,  but  there  might  be 
a  worse  lot  and  I  won't  complain,  though  it  is 
sometimes  a  hard  fight  between  myself  and  the 
blues  when  I  do  not  get  a  mail  for  twelve  days, 
as  happened  lately. 

Oh,  how  long  it  seems  to  summer!  I  can 
hardly  believe  there  will  ever  be  another,  and 
that  all  my  friends,  or  so  many  of  them,  will 
come  back  to  bless  me  with  their  presence.  I 
wish  I  had  a  little  painting  for  you,  Arpad  dear, 


1  To  John  Weiss.    Shoals,  November  22,  1874. 

2  To  Arpad  Sandor  Grossman.     Shoals,  November 
1874. 


64  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1875 

but  next  time  I  write  I  shall  hope  to  have 
something.  It  is  such  a  pleasure  to  find  I  can 
do  it,  you  can't  imagine!  And  I  have  not  had 
a  lesson  as  yet,  not  one,  and  I  find  I  can  make 
little  land  and  sea  scapes,  besides  flowers  and 
leaves  and  ferns  and  berries,  and  all  sorts  of 
pretty  things. 

My  l  heart  is  sick  with  the  terrors  of  these  win 
try  shoals.  Night  before  last  a  large  schooner 
went  ashore  on  Duck  Island,  —  do  you  remember 
it  1  —  lying  eastward  of  us,  a  mere  reef .  Your 
father  used  to  go  there  with  Waldemar  to  fish 
for  perch.  It  was  snowing  and  blowing  like 
forty  thousand  devils!  They  went  ashore  at 
about  eleven  o'clock.  The  captain,  William 
Henry  Keen,  and  another,  were  drowned. 
"Boys,  we  must  die  here,"  he  said;  "may  God 
forgive  me  if  I  have  wronged  any  man ! "  and 
then  the  wave  washed  the  poor  captain  away. 
Five  men  scrambled  on  to  the  rock  and  clung 
there  all  night,  in  constant  danger  of  being 
washed  off.  Oh  those  hours,  interminable,  bit 
ter,  dreary,  till  the  drear  day  dawned !  At  day 
light  a  fishing  schooner  passing  saw  their  sig 
nals  and  rescued  them.  We  knew  nothing  of 
it  till  yesterday  afternoon,  when  the  discovery 
i  To  Anna  Eichberg.  Shoals,  March  26,  1875. 


1875]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  65 

of  the  wreck  on  the  reef  filled  us  with  dis 
may.  It  was  blowing  —  ah,  how  useless  to  try 
to  tell  you  how  it  was  blowing  —  northwest !  I 
can't  describe  it  to  you.  Karl  was  set  to  watch 
if  any  sign  of  life  appeared,  and  my  brothers 
would  have  pushed  off  at  the  risk  of  their  lives ; 
but  while  no  sign  of  •  life  appeared,  we  waiting 
prayed  the  hurricane  might  go  down  with  the 
sun:  but  no,  we  were  forced  to  go  to  bed  dis 
tressed  with  the  thought  that  the  poor  sailors 
might  be  dying  of  cold  and  exhaustion  so  near, 
and  we  unable  to  help  them.  Not  till  three 
o'clock  this  morning  did  the  wind  lull,  and 
then  Oscar  and  Cedric  started,  rowing  together 
over  the  black,  still  howling  water  in  the 
brassy  moonlight.  They  reached  the  reef  in  the 
gray  dawn  and  sought  everywhere;  could  find 
nobody.  At  daybreak  the  fishing  schooner 
came  down,  and  told  them  the  survivors  were 
saved.  It  was  all  equipped  for  wrecking,  with 
men  and  tools  and  long  knives  and  hatchets. 
All  day  the  island  has  been  surrounded  by 
flocks  of  sails,  like  birds,  the  few  poor  people 
here,  the  Ingebertsens  and  others,  being  allowed 
to  secure  as  much  of  the  driftwood  as  they 
could;  and  Hans,  our  man  Bernhardt's  eldest 
boy,  with  his  brother  Karl,  a  morsel  of  a  child, 
went,  too;  made  several  trips,  and  the  last  one, 


60  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1875 

as  he  came  in  his  tiny  cockle-shell  heavily 
laden,  a  fiend's  squall  broke  out  of  the  south, 
with  terrible  thick  snow,  and  Hans  has  disap 
peared!  All  the  other  boats  got  in,  but  poor 
Hans  in  his  own  land  was  a  telegraph  operator, 
and  knows  no  more  how  to  handle  a  boat  than 
any  landlubber,  and  where  he  will  go,  or  how 
escape  death,  we  know  not,  and  are  devoured 
with  anxiety.  Poor  Bernhardt  is  almost  beside 
himself;  a  little  while  ago  I  met  him  on  the 
piazza,  blinking  the  snow  and  the  tears  out  of 
his  poor,  honest  eyes.  I  am  the  only  woman 
who  has  been  told.  Hans' s  two  sisters,  Mina 
and  Ovidia,  would  go  wild;  they  know  nothing 
at  all,  they  do  not  guess,  and  my  mother  would 
be  too  horribly  distressed.  Bernhardt  has  gone 
over  in  all  the  storm  to  Smutty  Nose  to  try  to 
console  his  wife;  they  are  all  so  fond  of  each 
other,  these  good  Norwegian  people.  Ah  me, 
my  heart  aches  for  them.  Where  are  those 
two  boys !  The  sea  is  black  and  white  as  death, 
with  horrible  long  billows  that  break  and  roar 
aloud.  Their  only  hope  is  to  steer  for  the 
continent,  if  only  Hans  has  sense  enough! 
The  great  danger,  too,  of  that  poor,  little,  tender 
boy  freezing  to  death,  — how  horrible  it  all  is! 
Captain  Keen's  body  was  found  this  afternoon 
and  taken  to  the  land.  The  schooner  was  the 


1875]  LETTERS   OF  CELT  A  THAXTER  67 

Birkmyre,  from  Goniss,  Hayti,  loaded  with  log 
wood  for  Boston.  We  had  hardly  got  over  the 
other  trouble  and  fear  about  Julius  Ingebertsen. 
Now  comes  all  this.  What  next?  Oh,  how 
long  to  wait  before,  if  they  are  alive  or  dead, 
those  poor  boys !  My  brothers  walk  the  floor, 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  they  are  so  anxious 
and  sorry;  and  the  storm  rages,  cruel,  inexo 
rable,  unmerciful,  bitter. 

Saturday  night.  They  are  saved!  But  only 
the  chance  of  their  having  on  board  a  firkin 
picked  up  from  the  wreck  saved  them;  with 
this  they  bailed  the  water  out  that  filled  the 
boat  every  few  minutes,  and  flying  before  the 
gale  reached  the  shore,  and  happily  the  mouth 
of  the  Piscataqua  River.  Poor  little  Karl  was 
so  spent  Hans  had  to  carry  him  in  his  arms  to 
the  shelter  they  found.  Hans  had  seen  the 
body  of  the  drowned  captain  drawn  up  from 
the  bottom  of  the  sea  about  Duck  Island  in  the 
afternoon,  and  it  was  such  a  frightful,  intoler 
able  sight,  he  saw  it  all  the  time  the  storm  was 
beating  on  them,  and  the  great  waves  tossing 
them,  as  it  seemed,  to  certain  destruction.  We 
did  not  know  till  noon  that  they  were  safe. 
Poor  Bernt  was  working  doggedly  all  the  morn 
ing  calking  the  Lone  Star,  lying  in  the  upper 
cove,  and  all  the  time  weeping  bitterly :  to  lose 


68  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1875 

both  boys  at  once!  Oh,  when  the  girls  were 
told  of  it !  Could  you  have  seen  them !  Mina 
sobbed  and  wept,  and  they  trembled,  poor 
things,  like  aspen  leaves.  Not  a  thing  did 
they  know  till  the  good  news  came.  I  was  so 
glad  we  had  kept  it  from  them.  Such  a  night 
as  their  father  and  mother  spent  last  night!  I 
was  up  early,  but  not  so  early  but  that  faithful 
Bernt  was  at  his  work,  and  I  called  to  him, 
"Bernt,  have  they  come  back? "  He  shook  his 
head;  he  could  not  speak. 

After  I  have  heard  you  l  speak,  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  been  looking  through  one  of  the  great  tele 
scopes  that  bring  the  awful  stars  so  near;  there 
is  the  same  sense  of  wonder  and  of  awe. 

I  am  going  to  Montpelier,  to  visit  there  a 
lady  who  has  been  begging  me  to  go  to  her  for 
nearly  twenty  years.  Little  she  knows  how 
glad  I  am  to  go!  I  never  traveled  so  far  be 
fore.  I  shall  see  effulgence  in  the  way  of  color 
at  M.,  for  the  trees  will  be  in  their  glory,  and 
the  mountains  are  beautiful.  .  .  . 

We  went  to  ride  this  morning,  in  an  open 

carriage   with    two    gay  steeds,    up   and    down 

among  the  superb  mountains.    From  the  heights, 

the  hills  were  like  the  sea  with  a  combination 

l  To  John  Weiss.    Autumn,  1875. 


1875]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  69 

of  "long  swell  "and  "chop"  crossing  it,  and 
against  the  sky  the  mountains  on  the  horizon 
seemed  to  be  heaved  like  petrified  waves  ready 
to  break.  And  the  trees!  fires  and  flames;  in 
candescence  was  the  only  word  I  could  think  of 
to  fit  the  situation.  Burning  coals  the  maples 
were,  and  where  the  frost  had  touched  some  of 
the  tops  it  was  like  white  ashes ;  I  expected  to 
see  smoke  rising.  Then  the  gold  and  topaz  and 
amber  flaring  up  into  the  blue  of  the  clear  sky, 
and  the  garnets  and  rubies!  it  was  magnificent. 
Maples  bigger  than  I  ever  dreamed  they  could 
grow,  in  such  ranks,  looking  as  if  they  had  had 
such  a  good  time  all  their  lives,  with  nothing 
on  earth  to  disturb  them,  and  plenty  of  room 
to  grow  and  attain  to  the  fullest  perfection. 
Enough  to  do  you  good  it  was  to  see  them ! 
These  people  are  so  nice;  know  you,  read  all 
they  can  get  hold  of,  of  yours  and  every  other 
man  who  speaks  sense.  I  tried  to  give  them 
some  of  your  remarks  about  Providence  to  re 
fresh  these  good  friends. 

I  must  tell  you ! l  I  came  home  like  a  raving 
lion  and  tore  my  new  bonnet  limb  from  limb, 
cut  off  half  a  yard  of  that  heaven-aspiring  coro 
net,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  turned  the 
i  To  Annie  Fields.  Newtonville,  November  13, 1875. 


70  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1876 

whole  structure  into  one  of  grace  and  elegance. 
(Ahem!)  But  really,  you  would  imagine  me  to 
be  at  least  ten  years  younger,  and  that  peace 
which  somebody  said  the  consolations  of  reli 
gion  failed  to  bring,  is  mine,  -—•  that  of  being 
fitly  bonneted! 

I  know  you 1  thought  of  us  in  the  terrific  storm 
yesterday.  It  ivas  terrific  truly !  Had  it  con 
tinued  another  twenty-four  hours  it  would  not 
have  left  stick  or  stone  on  the  Shoals,  I  do 
believe.  It  is  utterly  indescribable.  Every 
thing  that  could  move  in  the  house  shook  and 
jingled  and  rattled,  and  the  roar  in  the  sky 
was  perfectly  deafening,  and  the  sea  was  really 
"mountains  high."  The  "Old  Harry,"  invisi 
ble  generally,  "broke  solid,"  as  the  Shoalers 
say,  every  minute,  and  all  the  islands  were  lost 
in  the  clouds  of  flying  foam.  I  went  to  the 
top  of  the  house  for  a  moment  with  my  bro 
thers;  such  a  sight  hasn't  been  seen  since  the 
Minot's  Ledge  storm.  Our  only  yacht,  the 
Lone  Star,  sank  at  her  moorings  and  is  lost. 
She  was  our  only  winter  dependence,  poor  old 
craft.  She  served  us  long  and  well,  and  wo  are 
sorry  she  is  gone.  We  feared  to  see  the  solid 
pier  depart  piecemeal,  but  the  gale  lulled  in 
i  To  Annie  Fields.  Shoals,  March  22,  1876. 


1876]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  71 

time  to  save  it.  The  wind  and  water  were 
blown  through  and  through  the  house ;  windows 
and  doors  seemed  no  barriers  at  all.  My  screens 
served  good  purpose.  I  barricaded  my  mother 
with  them  from  the  wind,  and  made  her  quite 
snug  and  comfortable.  But  I  sat  in  my  winter 
sack  (outside  sack)  all  day!  To-day  two  big 
steamers  have  been  cruising  about  for  wrecks. 
I  dread  to  hear  of  the  disasters  that  must  have 
happened.  This  morning  the  sun  rose  clear 
and  crimson,  and  dived  forthwith  into  a  cloud, 
and  then  it  snowed  thickly  till  noon,  when  it 
cleared  with  a  wild  west  wind.  We  dare  hope 
for  news  from  the  continent  to-morrow. 

Mr.  Howells  has  returned  my  MS.,  and 
wants  me  to  make  it  more  imaginative,  —  set  my 
"  constructive  faculty  "  to  work  upon  it,  for  it 
is  full  of  fine  material.  He  is  right,  but  sup 
posing  one  hasn't  any  constructive  faculty? 
Du  lieber  Gott!  then  one  must  live  without 
any  gowns.  Plain  facts  won't  earn  them.  If 
one  could  only  be  as  economical  as  Mr.  Emer 
son's  aunt,  who  wore  her  shroud  alike  for  life 
and  death ! 

I  am  so  blue  (let  me  whisper  in  your  kind 
ear!)  that  I  feel  as  if  I  bore  the  car  of  Jugger 
naut  upon  my  back  day  after  day.  I  totally 
disbelieve  in  any  sunrise  to  follow  this  pitch- 


72  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1878 

black  night.  I  believe  I  am  going  to  see  every 
thing  of  a  funereal  purple  color  from  this  time 
forth  and  forever!  But  nobody  guesses  it.  I 
don't  tell  anybody  but  you,  whose  mind  is  so 
empty  of  occupation,  you  know,  and  who  have 
no  drains  on  your  sympathy ! 

Mr.  Whittier  has  sent  me  a  dear  letter  and 
"Mabel  Martin,"  with  a  poem  written  on  the 
fly-leaf,  —  a  little  dear,  sweet  poem,  all  for  poor, 
ungrateful,  undeserving  me. 

I  have  been  reading  Howells's  story.  How 
good  it  is!  How  slight  the  fabric,  yet  how 
firm  and  flawless,  how  delicate  and  fine!  Oh 
for  his  gift ! 

23d  March.  Well-beloved,  how  grateful  I 
am  to  you  for  the  dear  letter  which  comes  to 
day  !  And  do  let  me  thank  you  here  for  the 
letters  you  have  forwarded;  the  one  from  the 
Cowden  Clarkes  to-day  was  lovely,  full  of 
flowers,  Venus'  hair,  daisies,  violets,  primroses, 
and  a  small  pink  rose  "gathered  at  the  Ter 
race  fountain,  March  2d,"  for  poor  me.  Such 
a  lovely  letter!  I  am  so  grateful  for  it! 

24th,  Friday.  Tired  am  I  to-night,  dear, 
for  I  have  been  scouring  the  coasts  of  my  mel 
ancholy  isle  this  afternoon,  trying  to  find  sea 
weeds  to  return  to  the  Cowden  Clarkes  foi 
their  flowers.  But  the  breakers  have  washed 


1876]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  73 

the  rocks  bare  and  clean !  Absolutely  I  could 
find  nothing,  and  was  so  disappointed.  .  .  . 

Saturday.  All  day  a  choking  snowstorm, 
to-night  floods  of  rain;  and  the  sound  of  pour 
ing  water  rejoices  my  heart,  for  it  means  the 
bare  earth  shall  be  restored  to  our  longing  sight 
again.  This  morning  after  breakfast  I  was 
rowed  out  to  investigate  the  mooring  buoys  and 
ropes;  seeking  seaweeds  still,  found  scarcely 
any :  the  sleet  lashed  my  face,  and  the  cold  brine 
stung  my  hands  like  bitter  fire.  All  day  I 
have  been  at  work  over  the  few  weeds  I  found, 
nothing  worth  speaking  of,  hardly  worth  arrang 
ing.  There  are  certain  cracks  and  crannies, 
deep  fissures  in  the  eastern  coast,  I  mean  to 
investigate  before  I  give  up  my  hopes,  but  I 
fear  the  tempests  have  left  me  nothing. 

Sunday.  Oh,  Annie,  this  morning  a  brig 
went  ashore  on  White  Island  ledge  in  the  fog, 
at  eight  o'clock.  The  breakers  tore  off  her 
stern  and  drowned  five  men  there,  then  tossed 
the  vessel  upon  Londoners',  close  by  us,  and 
drowned  three  more.  Only  one  man  escaped 
to  tell  the  tale,  and  he  says  he  knows  not 
how  he  saved  his  life;  he  found  himself  on 
shore,  banged  and  bruised,  all  his  mates  gone 
and  the  great  brig  a  heap  of  bristling  ruins, 
broken  in  half,  high  and  dry  on  the  iron  rocks. 


74  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1876 

There  is  a  little  deserted  hut  on  the  island,  and 
he  made  his  way  to  that,  found  a  stove  and 
fuel  within  and  kindled  a  fire  there.  The 
smoke  of  this  fire  was  seen  soon  as  the  fog 
lifted,  but  the  vessel  was  so  smashed  to  pieces 
it  wasn't  visible  from  a  distance.  Part  of  the 
vessel's  log  drifted  to  our  island,  a  couple  of 
loose  pages;  and  a  huge  round  hoop,  one  of 
those  which  hold  a  sail  to  a  mast.  I  cannot 
describe  to  you  how  dreadfully  we  feel  about 
it,  so  near  us!  That  one  survivor  is  at  Star 
Island ;  how  he  must  feel  to-night !  The  leaves 
of  the  log-book  were  records  of  days  last  Au 
gust,  on  a  voyage  from  Annapolis,  N.  B.,  to 
Barbadoes.  All  sorts  of  things  drift  ashore. 
I  am  afraid  of  the  beaches.  Eight  men  are 
lying  drowned  about  these  remorseless  rocks. 
Poor  mother  is  so  distressed  with  it  all !  The 
storm  was  so  tremendous  in  the  night  she  could 
hardly  sleep  at  all.  I  never  heard  a  more 
frightful  tumult.  It  seemed  as  if  we  must  be 
thrust  off  into  the  sea  with  the  might  of  the 
wind. 

Monday  morning.  The  Molly  is  coming, 
and  I  close  my  letter  to  have  it  ready.  My 
brother  is  going  to  Portsmouth  for  another 
yacht,  the  Pilgrim,  to  take  the  Lone  Star's 
place ;  she  was  lost  in  the  storm  before  this. 


1876]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  75 

You l  remember  Londoners'  Island,  where  you 
and  I  went  for  morning  glories  ?  —  where  your 
papa  pursued  the  pensive  perch  on  summer 
afternoons  ?  Alas,  how  can  I  stop  to  think  of 
jests!  A  brig  lies  there  smashed  to  atoms, 
eight  men  drowned,  but  one  alive  to  tell  the 
tale,  of  all  the  crew.  She  struck  this  morning 
at  eight  o'clock,  in  broad  daylight  (but  there 
was  a  thick  fog),  on  the  outlying  rocks  of  White 
Island;  a  breaker  carried  off  part  of  her  stern 
and  drowned  five  of  her  crew !  Then  she  rolled 
and  wallowed  to  Londoners'  and  went  ashore 
there  on  the  western  slope  of  the  beach,  where 
the  tender  green  morning-glory  vines  and  rosy 
blossoms  blow  gently  in  the  summer  time,  as 
you  and  I  found  them,  — don't  you  remember? 
—  like  a  soft,  green  cascade  down  the  beach. 
There  the  brig  was  tossed  and  smashed  in  two, 
the  two  halves  lying  jammed  together  on  end. 
There  three  more  men  were  drowned.  Think 
of  the  force  of  the  sea  that  could  use  the  huge 
hull  of  a  vessel  like  a  child's  toy !  The  mate 
alone  escaped:  he  says  he  knows  not  how  he 
did  it,  but  he  found  himself  lying  bruised  and 
aching  there  on  the  beach,  the  brig  a  mass  of 
bristling  timbers,  sails  torn  to  ribbons  and  rags, 
masts  entirely  vanished,  his  mates  all  drowned 
1  To  Anna  Eichberg.  Sunday,  March  26th. 


76  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1876 

He  crept  up  to  that  little  house,  you  know, 
now  deserted,  and  found  there  a  stove  and  fuel 
and  he  lit  a  fire.  It  was  the  smoke  of  this  fire 
which  was  seen  when  the  fog  lifted  in  the  after 
noon,  and  the  people  from  Star  went  over  to 
Londoners'.  We  did  not  know  anything  of  it 
till  nearly  sunset,  for  the  fog  lingered  low  and 
the  wreck  is  such  a  heap  of  ruins  as  hardly 
to  be  visible  from  afar.  Part  of  her  log,  a 
few  loose  sheets,  drifted  over  here,  and  one  of 
the  great  wooden  rings  that  held  her  sails  to 
the  masts.  The  storm  was  beyond  description 
frightful  last  night.  Such  a  month  of  March 
as  this  I  have  never  known. 

Dear  child, 1  I  have  been  over  to  see  the  wreck ! 
My  brother  Cedric  rowed  me  over  to  London 
ers'  this  afternoon.  It  was  perfectly  still  and 
bright.  The  huge  vessel  lay  on  the  western 
side  of  the  beach,  not  far  from  our  morning- 
glory  garden.  Oh,  such  a  sight !  Crushed  like 
an  eggshell,  broken  in  two,  with  the  forward 
half  standing  upright  and  pointing  to  heaven 
with  its  splintered  timbers.  Her  huge  beams 
were  snapped  like  sticks  of  macaroni,  and  frayed 
at  the  ends  like  crossway  ravelings ;  such  a 
total  and  gigantic  destruction  is  not  to  be  de- 
l  To  Anna  Eichberg.  Shoals,  March  28,  1876. 


1876]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  7? 

scribed.  Her  sails  strewed  the  whole  beach  in 
tatters  not  larger  than  a  handkerchief,  and  the 
whole  island  seemed  to  have  been  the  scene 
of  some  giant's  preparations  for  kindling  his 
kitchen  fire,  —  one  heap  of  splintered  fragments. 
When  we  landed,  my  eyes  swept  the  distracted 
beach  with  keen  inquiry.  Eight  dead  men  are 
lying  about  the  ledges:  everywhere  I  feared  to 
see  a  ghastly  face,  a  hand,  a  foot,  beneath  the 
water  or  upon  the  shore.  Cables,  chains,  ropes, 
rigging,  anchors,  ruins  of  all  sorts,  were  half 
buried  in  the  rough  beach.  .  .  .  One  thick 
gray  vest  lay  in  a  pool,  and  stared  up  at  me 
with  ghastly  white  horn  buttons,  like  dead 
eyes.  Iron  bolts  four  feet  long  were  curved 
and  twisted  like  leaden  hairpins;  the  heaviest 
timbers  smashed,  broken  into  squares.  I  never 
imagined  anything  like  it.  I  brought  home  a 
bit  of  the  tremendous  thick,  stout  sails.  I  saw 
a  single  perch  dragged  from  the  deepest  deeps 
and  flung  high  and  dry  to  die  in  a  dry  agony, 
all  black  and  scarlet.  No  perch  yet  dare  to 
haunt  the  shores  within  reach  of  man,  but  next 
month  they  will  make  their  appearance,  coming 
in  from  deep  water. 

March  30,  Thursday.  It  is  bright  to-day, 
and  the  Molly  is  out  on  the  fishing  grounds 
and  we  are  sure  she  has  a  mail  on  board,  but  it 


78  LETTERS   OF   CELT  A   THAXTER          [1876 

blew  so  hard  she  did  not  stop  on  her  way  out. 
So  I  close  my  letters  to  be  ready  for  her  when 
she  stops  on  her  way  in.  I  hope  you  will  get 
your  little  plume  with  this.  I  send  a  bit  of 
the  wreck's  sail;  see  how  strong  and  new  it 
was,  and  how  the  edges  are  frayed  with  the 
fearful  chafing  of  a  few  hours  in  that  angry 
sea.  Did  I  tell  you?  the  brig  was  forty  days 
out  from  Liverpool  to  Boston,  loaded  with  salt. 

So1  bitter  a  storm  rages!  The  worst  yet. 
Just  now  we  came  near  having  the  roof  crushed 
in  by  a  falling  chimney,  but  my  brothers  saw 
it  tottering  just  in  time,  and  lashed  it  with 
ropes  of  wire,  iron  ropes.  It  was  so  lucky  it 
didn't  fall,  for  it  is  the  largest  one  and  would 
have  crushed  everything  beneath,  and  made  a 
hideous  ruin.  It  is  such  a  dreadful  night !  The 
snow  and  sleet  are  beating  against  the  windows, 
and  we  can  have  no  fire,  for  the  wind  blows  it 
all  straight  out  of  stove  or  fireplace,  gas,  flame, 
ashes,  even  brands  and  coal!  We  are  sitting 
with  the  window  open,  choked  with  gas  and 
half  frozen,  wrapped  in  all  our  outer  garments, 
and  the  snow  blowing  over  our  heads !  What 
a  nice  state  of  things!  I  am  in  deadly  terror 
lest  my  poor  mother  should  take  cold.  The 
i  To  Annie  Fields.  Shoals,  April  4,  1876, 


1876]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  79 

chimney  to  mother's  student  lamp  has  just 
cracked  where  a  snowflake  blew  against  it.  The 
three  student  lamps  flare  and  nicker  in  the  blast, 
and  there  is  such  a  roaring  and  thundering  as  is 
fearful  to  hear.  Ah  me,  will  there  ever  be  an 
end  to  it  all!  Never  was  such  a  spring  known 
before ! 

6th,  Thursday.  Well,  we  lived  through  it 
somehow,  and  yesterday  the  wind  had  hauled  a 
point  or  two,  enough  to  liberate  the  fireplaces, 
so  we  struggled  through;  and  to-day  the  wind 
is  southwest  and  still,  though  the  breakers  rear 
their  crested  heads  on  all  sides.  This  has 
been  the  worst  storm  yet.  The  sea  began  to 
sweep  into  the  garden  toward  the  big  house ;  a 
little  longer  and  our  plight  would  indeed  have 
been  forlorn.  But  it  always  lulls  in  time  to 
save  us.  Some  day  it  won't,  however,  and  off 
we  shall  go.  I  wish  I  could  show  you  a  pep 
per-box  from  the  wrecked  brig,  the  quaintest 
thing,  made  of  creamy  white  antique  crockery, 
shaped  like  an  ancient  lighthouse.  The  pepper 
is  put  in  at  the  bottom,  which  is  then  corked. 
I  wonder  where  it  was  made.  I  'd  give  much 
to  know  its  history.  Such  a  quaint  thing  I 
have  never  seen.  Yesterday  I  made  a  cushion 
for  my  sofa.  Not  having  learned  an  uphol 
sterer's  trade,  it  was  difficult  to  pick  over  all 


80  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1876 

the  wool  and  hair  and  rearrange  it,  and  then 
cover  it  and  prick  it  through  with  a  big  needle, 
and  then  put  on  my  beautiful  Fairchild  bro 
cade.  Did  I  tell  you  ?  they  sent  me  enough  for 
my  sofa.  That  was  very  kind,  wasn't  it?  I 
wanted  buttons,  but  hadn't  any;  so  I  took 
manilla  rope  arid  made  tufts  where  I  fastened  it 
through  and  through. 

I l  am  at  this  present  wild  about  K.  W.  Gilder's 
poem,  "  The  New  Day ; "  it  is  the  most  exqui 
site  thing  I  have  seen  in  these  modern  times. 
The  whole  book,  with  its  peacocks'  feathers 
and  poppies  and  daisies  and  wild  roses,  is  so 
beautiful!  And  as  for  the  poems,  there's  no 
English  to  tell  their  beauty.  Could  I  but  fly 
to  your  side  with  it,  and  have  one  little  half 
hour's  delight  with  you  over  it!  Oh  these  son 
nets  :  "  The  proud,  full  sail  of  this  great  verse !  " 
Don't  get  the  book  (were  I  only  where  I  could 
get  it  for  you !),  but  wait  and  see  mine  with  me 
first,  and  do,  DO,  DO  come. 

What  shall  I  write  to  you  2  about  from  this 
supreme  loneliness?  It  has  stormed  for  five 
days  wearily,  wearily;  no  mail  all  that  time 

2  To  Annie  Fields.    Shoals,  June  29,  1876. 

«  To  Richard  H.  Derby.    Shoals,  December  11, 1876. 


1876]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  81 

The  thermometer  has  only  fallen  to  eight  degrees 
above  zero,  but  that  was  cold  enough,  and  the 
tempest  was  savage,  and  the  face  of  the  gale  was 
awful  to  behold,  —  the  sea  black,  swollen,  angry, 
streaming  with  hoary  vapor  from  the  cold,  and 
flinging  broadsides  of  freezing  spray  all  over  the 
island;  snow  falling,  hissing,  whispering,  lash 
ing  the  window  panes;  the  noise  of  breakers 
booming  and  thundering;  and  the  voice  of  the 
wind  wailing,  howling,  expostulating,  shrieking. 
Eleven  panes  of  glass  were  broken  in  the  din 
ing-room  with  missiles  flung  by  the  wind. 

So  the  hurricane  had  a  fine  time  careering 
through  the  house.  I  wanted  a  book  at  the 
cottage.  Nobody  could  venture  for  it  till  to 
day,  when  the  wind  has  lulled  a  little.  It 
might  as  well  have  been  in  Portsmouth  for  all 
the  good  it  did  me.  Think  what  it  must  be 
to  live  for  five  days  in  the  centre  of  such  an 
insane  tumult!  But  I  haven't  thought  of  it, 
busied  in  my  writing-desk  and  paint-box.  I 
am  painting  on  china  now.  It  is  most  exqui 
site  work,  fit  for  the  fairies. 

Last  night  I  had  a  shock  that  nearly  stopped 
the  beating  of  my  heart.  When  I  left  home  I 
told  my  husband  if  he  ever  wanted  me,  if  any 
one  were  ill  or  anything,  to  telegraph  to  Cap 
tain  Band,  of  the  steam-tug  Clara  Bateman,  in 


82  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1876 

Portsmouth,  and  he  would  come  for  me,  in  any 
weather.  Well,  last  night  at  ten  o'clock,  just 
as  we  had  gone  to  bed  (I  sleep  in  my  mother's 
room),  I  heard  through  the  hoarse  breathing  of 
the  gale  the  long,  low,  melancholy  peal  of  a 
steamer's  whistle.  Heavens!  I  was  up  in  a 
moment.  No  one  heard  it  except  myself.  I 
threw  something  over  me  and  pushed  up  the 
window,  and  leaned  far  out  into  the  fury  of  the 
storm.  The  wind  cuffed  and  buffeted  my  de 
fenseless  head  and  the  snow  melted  on  my  face ; 
but  through  the  cannonading  of  billows,  and  all 
the  confusion  of  sounds,  came  again  that  long, 
sad  moan,  like  a  cry  for  help,  for  human  succor 
or  divine  aid.  Nearer  and  nearer  it  came,  every 
moment  louder  and  louder,  till  at  last  it  passed 
us  by  and  went  wandering  out  to  the  eastward, 
some  poor,  bewildered  vessel,  uncertain  of  her 
way.  But  I  was  sure  at  first  it  was  the  Clara 
Bateman  come  for  me,  and  I  hardly  dared  to 
breathe  till  I  heard  no  longer  that  sombre, 
startling  sound.  I  trust  she  came  to  no  harm, 
but  what  anxious  hours  must  have  crept  over 
that  vessel  till  dawn!  To-night  the  world  is 
quite  calm  in  comparison  to  what  it  has  been. 
Just  before  sunset  I  ventured  out  into  the 
office  to  see  what  I  could  see.  I  found  the 
office  windows  so  shrouded  in  snow  and  spray  I 


187?]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  83 

could  not  look  out ;  so  I  picked  my  way  through 
the  snow  on  the  floor,  opened  the  outside  door 
and  peered  out.  Such  a  bleared  and  ghastly 
scene!  Solid  ice  about  the  island  shore;  wharf 
and  crane  a  mountain  of  solid  salt-water  ice  and 
frost ;  snow  everywhere ;  the  sea  dull  olive-green 
and  black ;  a  rift  of  stormy  gray  in  the  sky.  A 
huge  black  bird,  a  shag,  rose  from  the  rock  oppo 
site  me  and  flew  ponderously  away.  The  gulls 
soared  and  shrieked.  I  ran  back  and  crept  to 
the  fireside. 

In  the  year  1877  letters  began  to  reach 

her  friends  from  the  islands,  speaking  of  her 

mother's   severe   and  continued  illness.      In 

one  of  them  she  says :  — 

I  'm  so  tired !  My  patient  caught  cold.  My 
life  is  passed  in  watching  draughts  and  covering 
her.  I  went  to  Portsmouth  to  see  the  doctor; 
had  to  stay  over  night :  it  was  like  heaven,  the 
little  rest,  and  the  sight  of  the  blossoms  and  the 
green  earth,  and  the  dear,  kind  De  Normandies. 

Not  three  weeks  and  the  doctor  can  come 
every  day  in  the  steamer  to  see  my  mother. 
If  I  only  can  keep  up!  Last  night  some 
thing  so  queer  happened.  I  am  obliged  to 
keep  a  German  student  lamp  burning  all  night, 
though  I  hate  the  glare ;  for  I  must  spring,  with 
all  my  wits  and  all  my  implements  of  war,  the 


84  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1877 

instant  I  am  wanted,  to  the  rescue,  and  there  's 
no  time  to  fuss  with  lamps.  Two  or  three  of 
the  sashes  were  down  in  the  big  bay-window,  and 
between  two  and  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
it  began  softly  to  rain,  and  all  at  once  the  room 
filled  with  birds.  Song  sparrows,  flycatchers, 
wrens,  nuthatches,  yellow  birds,  thrushes,  all 
kinds  of  lovely  feathered  creatures,  fluttered  in 
and  sat  on  picture  frames  and  gas  fixtures, 
or  whirled,  agitated,  round  in  mid-air;  while 
troops  of  others  beat  their  heads  against  the 
glass  outside,  vainly  striving  to  get  in.  The 
light  seemed  to  attract  them  as  it  does  the 
moths.  I  had  finally  to  put  it  out.  We  had  no 
peace,  there  was  such  a  crowd,  such  cries  and 
chirps  and  flutterings!  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing,  did  you  ? 

This  afternoon,1  while  mother  slept,  I  sat  with 
her,  and  laid  on  my  only  tile,  first,  a  warm 
summer  sky  of  delicate  flushed  rose  melting  into 
softest  pearly  gray  high  up  (the  sky  which 
faces  the  west  at  sunset) ;  and  far  off  on  the 
horizon  I  made  the  low  hills  melt  in  distance; 
and  nearer,  quiet  green  fields  and  bits  of  wood 
with  groups  of  poplar  and  thicker  masses  of 
green;  then  a  low  garden  wall,  and  inside  the 
i  To  Annie  Fields,  1877. 


1877]  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  85 

garden  that  lovely,  pensive  Mistress  Mary,  cop 
ied  straight  out  of  the  baby's  opera.  I  have 
n't  finished  it;  my  human  figure  is  only  out 
lined.  I  know  it  will  be  difficult,  but  I  think  it 
can  be  done,  that  delicate  work  of  copying  the 
face  and  hands  and  arms.  Mr.  Hunt  said  to  me 
once,  "You  are  not  afraid;  therefore  you  will 
be  able  to  do  anything,"  and  I  never  forget  it. 
I  live  in  these  little  landscapes  I  fashion;  I 
love  the  flowers,  and  living  things,  and  quaint 
Japanese  I  work  among,  with  a  perfect  passion. 
It  is  all  my  entertainment,  all  the  amusement  I 
have,  you  know.  I  am  up  at  six  o'clock  every 
morning,  often  before,  laying  my  plans  for  din 
ner  for  the  family  of  eleven  (for  since  mother 
has  been  ill,  six  weeks  now,  I  have  attended 
to  the  housekeeping),  getting  ready  the  dessert, 
and  laying  everything  in  train  for  the  noonday 
meal,  that  I  may  paint  every  minute  of  daylight 
that  I  can  steal.  I  take  a  cup  of  coffee,  then 
arrange  my  cooking,  and  then  sit  down  at  my 
desk  and  write  till  the  sun  rises,  by  my  student 
lamp,  as  fast  as  I  can,  so  not  to  take  my  time 
of  sunshine  for  it.  We  have  breakfast  at  eight, 
when  my  brothers  come  down.  My  little  Nor 
wegians  are  such  treasures!  So  sweet  to  look 
at,  so  gently  bred,  with  manners  as  near  perfect 
as  they  can  be.  Ovidia,  Anna  Bergetta,  Anto- 


86  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1877 

nine,  -^  they  are  charming.  They  take  such  de 
light  in  this  fairyland  of  painting,  and  watch 
from  afar,  and  gloat  over  near,  if  permitted, 
everything  I  do,  and  clasp  their  hands  and  cry, 
"Oh,  how  can  anything  in  the  world  be  so 
beautiful  as  that !  "  It  is  all  their  amusement, 
too.  Oh,  it  is  almost  spring. 

I  have  painted  this  winter  one  hundred 
and  fourteen  pieces  for  different  people,  —  cups, 
saucers,  plates  of  all  kinds,  a  great  deal  of 
immensely  careful  and  elaborate  work.  Some 
Japanese  things  I  have  been  doing  are  really 
lovely,  —  plates,  tinted  first  pale  sea-green,  and 
a  Japanese  lady,  a  beauty,  no  clodhopper,  in 
the  middle  of  each,  with  birds  or  butterflies  or 
bats  or  turtles,  swallows,  dragon-flies,  lizards, 
beetles,  any  and  every  thing,  on  the  border,  with 
flowers  and  grasses  or  leaves,  all  copied  from 
the  Japanese,  not  evolved  out  of  my  inner  con 
sciousness,  and  so  sure  to  be  good.  The  plate 
I  sent  you  would  have  been  nicer  had  it  been 
a  tile.  It  was  n't  anything,  you  know,  only 
lovely  and  queer,  with  the  morning  moon  set 
ting,  and  the  sad,  still  water,  the  hint  of  trouble 
in  the  clouds,  and  the  drear  black  ravens.  I 
don't  know  anything,  but  I  'm  learning. 


1877]          LETTEKS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  87 

I  thank  you  l  for  all  your  kindness ;  it  is  your 
kindness  that  touches  and  consoles  me.  Now 
let  me  tell  you  my  great  good  news.  We  are 
all  going  to  move  to  Portsmouth  for  the  win 
ter.  Our  man  of  business  in  that  town  is  look 
ing  up  houses  at  this  present  moment,  and  I  am 
presently  to  go  to  town  and  choose.  Think  of 
that!  I  know  you  will  be  glad  for  me.  It 
seems  all  like  a  dream.  If  we  only  can  get 
mother  over!  But  when  the  moment  comes 
the  strength  will  come,  I  hope.  I  fear  there 
will  not  be  much  time  for  painting  anything; 
orders  still  pour  in,  but  housekeeping  in  P. 
will  not  leave  me  much  margin,  I  fear,  with  the 
constant  care  of  so  great  an  invalid.  But  I 
don't  care  for  anything,  so  long  as  I  get  her 
within  reach  of  help. 

This  is  only  a  word  to  tell  you.  Oh,  but 
I  must  not  forget  Appleton  Brown.  He  has 
painted  a  picture  of  my  little  garden,  sitting  in 
one  corner  looking  across  through  the  fence  at 
the  sparkling,  tranquil  afternoon  sea,  —  looking 
across  a  mystic  tangle  of  straggling  green,  all 
spangled  and  sprinkled  with  stars  of  gold  and 
purple  and  scarlet,  to  a  mass  of  cloud-white 
phlox  and  the  tall  black  larkspur  spikes  gone  to 
seed,  tall  indeed  against  the  sunlit  sky ;  a  bit  of 
1  To  Annie  Fields.  Shoals,  August  21,  1877. 


88  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1877 

the  piazza  and  the  striped  awning.  And  the  pic 
ture  is  exquisite,  brimful  of  sentiment  and  beauty. 
Do  make  them  go  down  to  you;  you  will  be 
perfectly  charmed  with  them,  as  we  all  are. 

My  eyes  are  stiff  with  weeping  and  watching, 
but  I  want  to  send  you  a  word.  My  beautiful, 
dear  mother  is  sinking  away,  and  we  are  heart 
broken  beyond  bearing.  It  seems  as  if  I  must 
go,  too;  I  cannot  let  her  go  alone.  She  lies 
looking  like  an  angel,  talking  and  babbling  of 
green  fields,  and  clinging  to  us,  and  whispering 
blessings,  and  smiling  as  no  one  else  can  smile 
for  us  in  the  wide  world.  Almost  I  perish  in 
the  grasp  of  this  grief.  What  do  I  care  for  this 
world  without  her  1  If  I  could  but  go,  too ! 

Dearest  Annie, l  this  morning,  at  half  past  seven, 
the  sweetest  mother  in  the  world  went,  God 
alone  knows  where,  away  from  us!  There  is 
no  comfort  for  us  anywhere  except  by  the  grad 
ual  hand  of  time.  The  "consolations  of  reli 
gion  "  I  cannot  bear.  I  can  bear  my  anguish 
better  than  their  emptiness,  though  I  am  crushed 
breathless  by  my  sorrow.  It  seems  as  if  I 
could  never  fill  my  lungs  with  air  again,  as  if  I 
never  wished  to  look  upon  the  light  of  day. 

1  To  Annie   Fields.     Wednesday  night,  November  14, 

1877. 


1877]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  89 

She  lies  close  by  me,  like  a  lily  flower,  her 
snow-white  hair  under  her  snow-white  cap  of 
delicate  lace,  and  her  sweet  hands  folded,  her  pil 
low  strewn  with  the  brightest  flowers  that  blow, 
—  scarlet  geraniums,  gold  chrysanthemums, 
and  blood-red  roses  and  bright  blush  roses.  She 
is  white  enough  to  jcool  their  ardent  colors,  and 
beautiful  she  looks.  "Don't  bring  me  your 
sick  tints,"  I  cried,  "your  fainting  heliotropes 
and  sallow  tea-rose  buds  half  blown.  This  is  not 
their  place;  they  are  beautiful  where  they  be 
long,  but  not  by  the  dead.  Flowers  with  life 
in  them,  and  warmth  and  gladness,  —  those  are 
what  belong  here. "  So  they  brought  the  most 
glorious  armful  of  beauty.  Ah,  how  she  loved 
them,  my  poor  mother!  I  never  left  her  a 
moment  this  last  week ;  she  clung  to  my  hand 
day  and  night.  We  had  no  stranger.  Mina 
and  I  did  everything  ourselves,  night  and  day. 
This  morning,  when  she  died,  we  did  for  her 
all  that  was  necessary,  and  made  her  comely 
and  beautiful  for  her  coffin,  with  only  our  own 
hands.  She  breathed  her  life  away  so  softly 
she  looks  like  a  dear,  quiet  child. 

It  seems  as  if  the  whole  range  of  the  Hima 
layas  lay  upon  my  heart.  Shall  I  ever  breathe 
freely  again,  I  wonder! 

We  carried  my  dear  mother  out  to  the  island 


90  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1878 

and  buried  her  by  my  father.  .  .  .  All  was 
done  as  she  would  have  wished:  no  alien  eyes 
watched  her  last  moments,  no  strange  hands 
touched  her  after  she  was  dead;  all  was  as  she 
would  have  wished.  A  large  anchor  of  shining 
ivy  leaves  had  been  sent.  I  dropped  it  upon 
her  coffin  down  into  the  grave,  the  symbol  of 
hope.  I  hope  all  things,  I  believe  nothing. 
Still  the  face  of  the  sky  is  dreadful  to  me.  I 
don't  know  when  this  terrible  weight  will  wear 
itself  away.  By  and  by,  perhaps,  I  shall  be 
able  to  bear  the  sight  of  the  sun. 

I  wanted  to  run  with  your1  letter  to  mother 
just  as  soon  as  I  saw  the  handwriting.  Oh, 
dear!  Sunday  night  was  divinely  beautiful, 
the  sky  all  red  with  sunset,  the  sea  all  silver 
calm,  the  little  moon  shining  white  high  in  the 
sky.  I  got  the  girls  to  help  me,  and  we  all 
went  carrying  blossoming  plants  —  heliotropes, 
geraniums,  fuchsias,  pansies  all  in  bloom  —  up 
to  the  dear  grave,  and  they  helped  me  set  them 
all  out,  and  they  made  a  blaze  of  the  beautiful 
colors  she  loved  in  the  green  and  quiet  place. 
And  then  I  went  and  got  my  brothers  and 
showed  them  what  I  had  done,  and  we  nearly 
perished  of  it  all,  the  miserable  sense  of  empti 
1  To  Lucy  Derby.  Shoals,  June  11, 1878. 


1878]          LETTERS   OF   CELT  A   THAXTER  91 

ness  and  loss  that  seems  as  if  it  never  could  be 
appeased. 

The  garden  is  full  of  things,  the  phlox  in  its 
old  place  and  all  the  same.  The  honeysuckle 
is  in  a  tempest  of  blossoming.  All  mother's 
beloved  plants  I  have  and  watch  and  tend  on 
the  piazza.  Here  is  a  crimson  gillyflower  which 
never  blossomed  for  her,  dear  soul!  That  is 
in  a  blaze  of  beauty.  I  am  almost  angry  with 
it  for  being  so  beautiful  when  she  cannot  see 
it.  ... 

"  Lorna  Doone  "  ?  Why,  I '  ve  lived  on  it  ever 
since  it  first  saw  the  light!  Read  it  a  dozen 
times.  I  'm  glad  you  've  found  Blackmore,  for 
I  think  there  's  nobody  like  him. 

I  don't  know  where  you  1  are.  In  Manchester, 
I  hope.  Heaven  love  you  and  bless  you,  wher 
ever  you  are.  It  is  six  o'clock  this  blue,  bright 
summer  morning.  I  am  sitting  on  my  piazza 
with  my  back  to  the  sun,  in  front  of  me,  a  lit 
tle  at  one  side,  my  big  honeysuckle  in  a  tem 
pest  of  blossoming  sweetness  to  the  very  roof 
of  the  piazza.  Over  the  hammock,  at  the  end, 
is  a  swallow's  nest,  and  the  little  mother  is 
sitting,  all  fluffed  up  as  if  she  were  chilly,  on 
the  hammock  rope,  and  the  father  darts  in  and 
l  To  Aunie  Fields.  Shoals,  June  13,  1878. 


92  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1878 

out  and  round  about  with  a  thousand  chirpings 
and  melodious  cries.  There  is  a  great  crimson 
gillyflower,  with  fragrance  like  a  draught  of 
perfumed  wine,  close  at  the  edge  of  the  piazza: 
it  is  so  delicious !  They  would  be  good  for  you 
at  Manchester  —  "stocks,"  for  they  come  up 
every  year  without  sowing ;  the  same  plant  lasts 
a  lifetime,  and  they  are  every  divine  color  the 
Lord  has  made.  On  the  calm,  blue  sea  lies 
many  a  dreaming  sail,  and  a  big  gundalow  with 
a  lateen  sail  makes  me  think  of  the  Mediterra 
nean;  never  could  that  sea  be  bluer  and  calmer 
than  this.  I  am  all  wrapped  up  in  your  lovely 
fluffy  white  shawl;  it  is  so  pretty  and  such  a 
comfort!  I  live  in  it,  and  am  so  grateful  to 
you.  It  wraps  me  about  like  the  soft  warmth 
of  your  loving  kindness,  you  dearest;  and  when 
I  think  for  whom  you  meant  it  first,  it  is  more 
precious  still,  that  you  could  have  found  it  in 
your  heart  to  give  it  to  me. 

Friday  morning.  Again  on  the  piazza,  in 
the  same  place,  and  everything  the  same,  the 
parrot  coaxing  me  with  "  Good  morning !  good 
morning,  dear ! "  To-day  the  whole  world  be 
gins  to  arrive !  .  .  .  But  now  begins  telling  over 
my  sad  story,  over  and  over  and  over.  Before 
the  summer  has  done,  I  hope  I  shall  have 
learned  to  bear  it. 


1879]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  98 

My1  summer  has  been  divine,  though  I  have 
worked  harder  than  ever  before.  When  I 
came  down  here,  I  never  in  my  life  had  been 
so  low  in  my  mind.  I  missed  my  mother  so 
I  knew  not  which  way  to  turn.  But  Heaven 
sent  down  here  a  musician,  who  played  Bee 
thoven  to  me  morning,  noon,  and  night  the 
livelong  summer,  and  cured  my  sick  soul  as  a 
splendid  tonic  cures  a  sick  body.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Paine,  from  Cambridge,  —  Professor  Paine,  you 
know,  of  Harvard,  —  happened  to  come  here,  — 
came  for  a  week  and  stayed  six  and  more ;  and 
though  he  did  not  intend  to  play,  and  I  never 
asked  him,  he  found  out  how  much  it  was  to 
me,  and  played  to  me  hours  every  day.  I  cannot 
tell  you  what  it  was  to  me.  I  have  not  stopped 
working  once,  not  one  day,  all  summer.  While 
the  music  went  on,  while  the  people  went  in 
and  out  and  talked  and  talked,  I  painted  on 
steadily  every  minute. 

Will  you 2  not  send  me  a  word  ?  Just  think  of 
our  having  William  Hunt  here,  just  shuddered 
back  from  the  dreadful  verge,  so  attenuated,  so 
pathetic!  He  and  his  sister  and  his  brother, 
and  his  man  Carter,  are  all  housed  beneath 

1  To  Feroline  W.  Fox.    Shoals,  September  10,  1878 

2  To  Annie  Fields.     Shoals,  July  19, 1879. 


94  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1879 

this  cottage  roof,  and  I  hope  and  trust  the  ail 
is  going  to  do  everything  for  him. 

"  Fold  him  to  rest,  0  pitying  clime  ! 
Give  back  his  wasted  strength  again." 

Poor,  dear  fellow!  there  is  nobody  I  pity  so 
much.  Mr.  Thaxter  is  here,  next  door  to  his 
room;  everybody  is  taking  care  of  him,  W.  H. 
I  mean.  ...  I  told  him  I  wished  he  would 
consider  my  little  den,  my  nook,  my  bower, 
this  fresh  and  fragrant  little  parlor,  as  his  own 
particular  property,  and  he  said,  "You  dear 
child!  you  don't  know  what  a  miserable,  sick, 
weak,  good-for-nothing  I  am,  fit  only  for  my 
bed."  But  he  really  is  coming  back  to  life, 
and  eats  and  sleeps  again,  and  yesterday  rowed 
a  little  in  the  children's  boat  on  the  pond,  and 
takes  an  interest  in  things,  in  the  charming 
music  of  the  band,  etc.  He  was  suffocating  in 
that  hot  Weathersfield.  I  'm  so  glad  he  could 
get  here. 

What  did  the  tornado  do  to  you  ?  Nothing, 
I  hope.  Naught  to  us.  Mr.  Thaxter  was  read 
ing  Agamemnon  to  a  roomful  here,  when  Zeus 
aloft  began  so  fearfully  to  thunder  we  could  n't 
hear  him  speak  down  here  below. 

Early  boat  whistles  and  I  want  to  get  this 
off. 


1879]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  95 

Of  the  tragic  end  of  William  Hunt's  life 

she  wrote  as  follows :  — 

/  found  him.  It  was  reserved  for  me,  who 
loved  him  truly,  that  bitterness.  All  the  island 
was  seeking  him.  It  was  I  who  went  to  the 
brink  of  that  lovely  little  lake,  round  which 
the  wild  roses  have  breathed  and  glowed  all 
summer,  and  the  little  birds  have  come  to 
drink  and  wash  in  the  early  morning  light  at 
its  peaceful  brim. 

Let  me  begin.  At  breakfast  he  seemed  bright 
as  usual,  then  came  a  tremendous  cloud,  thun 
der,  lightning,  rain;  it  was  so  dark  we  had  to 
light  the  gas.  We  went  over  to  my  fireside  as 
soon  as  it  ended.  You  know  he  lived  in  the 
room  above  the  parlor  where  I  used  to  be;  that 
was  his  chamber.  He  sat  by  the  fire  with 
L.  C.  and  me,  talked  a  little,  and  then  went  out ; 
was  gone  only  a  few  minutes.  But  the  lady 
whose  room  was  behind  the  parlor  said  she 
saw  him  go  up  to  the  reservoir  and  stand  on  its 
stone  edge  and  look  into  the  water,  and  then 
toward  the  house,  and  then  back  to  the  water. 
At  last  he  came  back,  past  the  window  where  I 
sat  painting,  and  in  again,  and  sat  down  on  the 
sofa.  "Oh,  William,"  I  said,  "you  are  quite 
wet;  don't  go  out  again  till  it  clears  off;  stay 
here  by  the  fire."  He  stayed  a  few  minutes; 


96  LETTERS   OF   CELT  A   THAXTER  [1879 

he  never  stays  anywhere  longer,  so  restless;  and 
then  he  went  out  of  the  door,  and  I  never 
saw  him  again  alive.  He  hated  to  he  fol 
lowed  and  watched.  He  "begged  us  not,  and  we 
respected  his  wish,  never  dreaming  of  this  pos 
sibility.  Each  of  us  thought  him  in  a  differ 
ent  place,  and  it  was  nearly  two  hours  before 
we  all,  questioning  each  other  in  terror,  realized 
he  had  not  been  seen  by  any  one !  Up  on  to 
that  bright,  sunny  piazza  of  mine,  where  he  had 
watched  the  flowers  and  heard  the  music  all 
summer  long,  they  laid  his  beautiful,  dripping 
length,  his  gold  watch-chain  glittering,  swing 
ing.  They  tried  to  find  some  life;  there  was 
none.  We  took  him  in,  put  in  blankets,  rubbed 
and  rubbed.  It  was  mockery ;  he  had  been  dead 
hours.  Oh,  how  grand  he  looked  when  we  laid 
him  down  and  let  him  rest  at  last!  Beautiful, 
dear  fellow !  we  could  not  keep  away  from  him ; 
he  was  fascinating  even  in  death,  and  we  sat 
and  gazed  and  gazed,  and  tried  to  believe  it. 

It  is  early.1  No  one  is  up.  In  this  charming 
old  town  dear  J.  loves  so  much,  the  robins  are 
calling  from  the  elm-tree  tops  to  one  another. 
It  is  so  still  the  sound  reechoes  from  street  and 
square.  A  blithe  cock  crows.  Opposite  the 
1  To  Annie  Fields.  Portsmouth. 


1880]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  97 

windows  of  my  room  the  ash-tree,  whose  scarlet 
berries  pleased  my  sweet  mother's  fading  eyes 
that  sad  autumn  four  years  ago,  is  covered  with 
knots  of  snowy  bloom,  like  a  bride.  Ah  me, 
this  radiant,  blooming,  singing,  shining  world! 
what  does  it  mean  with  its  passion  of  grief  at 
heart? 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1880  the  Thaxter 
family  flitted  away  from  Newtonville  forever. 
The  place  was  sold,  and  they  took  up  their 
abode   at    Kittery   Point,   near    Portsmouth, 
within  sight  of  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 
There l  is  a  whirlwind  of  business  here.     Would 
you  mind  if  my  gown  hangs  up  in  your  closet  a 
while  longer? 

The  name  of  the  place  at  Kittery  is  really 
Dartington.  Sir  Arthur  Champernowne  so 
called  it,  after  his  family  place  at  home  in  Eng 
land,  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Dart. 

Sir  Arthur  was  a  nephew  of  Sir  Ferdinando 
Gorges,  and  came  over  here  to  look  after  his 
uncle's  estates,  settled  there  and  called  it  Dart 
ington  ;  so  we  pick  up  the  name  and  rechristen 
it,  as  we  did  Appledore.  Rather  a  nice  name, 
don't  you  think  ?  It  seems  there  were  two 
brothers  Champernowne,  Sir  Francis  and  Sir 
Arthur.  It  was  Sir  Francis  who  settled  and 
l  To  Annie  Fields.  Newtonville,  April  4, 1880. 


98  LETTERS  OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1880 

named  the  place,  not  Arthur,  and  Sir  Francis 
who  is  buried  there.  Is  n't  it  curious  that  the 
name  Thaxter  should  appear  in  some  of  the  old 
records  of  the  Champernovvnes  ? 

In  the  autumn  of  1880  Celia  Thaxter  and 
her  eldest  brother  sailed  for  Europe.      They 
could  only  be  absent  from  their   respective 
responsibilities  for  a  very  brief  period;  but 
such  vacation  as  they  could  allow  themselves 
was  rendered  a  necessity  by  Mr.  Laighton's  in 
cidental   illness.      Even  Mrs.  Thaxter 's  keen 
senses  were  dazzled  and  fatigued  by  the  rapid 
pace  at  which  they  whirled  along  through  the 
wonders  of  the  Old  World.      They  traveled 
much  too  fast  for  genuine  enjoyment;  never 
theless  she  gathered,  according  to  her  wont, 
a  large  harvest  of  pleasant  memories.      Her 
first  letter  is  from  the  ship :  — 
Here1  we   are,    "midmost   the   beating  of   the 
steely  sea,"  and  such  a  time  as  we  have  had  of 
it !     For  we  ran  the  first  night  into  a  raging, 
roaring,  ranting,   tearing,   dry  easter.      Rough? 
I  believe  you!     My  brother  wanted  "to  see  how 
she  behaved  in  a  storm."      Well,   he  had  his 
wish,  and  quite  enough  of  it,  without  a  moment's 
delay.      Oh,  she  pitched  like  a  maniac,  and  she 

1  To  James  and  Annie  Fields.    October  8th,  seventh  day 
out. 


1880]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  99 

rolled  like  a  drunken  elephant ;  at  every  plunge 
her  propeller  was  bare  to  the  blast,  and  made  her 
shake  and  quiver  like  an  aspen,  or,  better,  like  the 
variations  on  the  violin  in  the  Kreutzer  sonata. 
My  brother  stormed  up  and  down,  like  the  jolly 
mariner  he  is,  but  I  —  I  lay  very  low  indeed,  I 
assure  you,  and  right  quiet  I  kept,  nor  dared 
I  move  an  eyelash  for  three  days.  Then  I 
emerged,  and  Captain  Morland  tucked  me  under 
his  arm  and  rushed  me  up  and  down  the  deck 
till  I  got  used  to  its  angle  of  forty-five  degrees, 
and  since  then  I  stay  on  deck  all  the  time. 
But  it 's  very  nasty  indeed.  Yesterday  the 
captain  called  the  sailors  to  lash  me  and  my 
chair  to  the  iron  railing  under  the  lee  of  one  of 
the  life-boats,  where  they  had  rigged  a  canvas 
to  keep  off  the  flying  water,  and  they  lashed  my 
bag  to  the  chair,  Jessie's  chair  this  time,  and 
I  lay  there,  buffeted  and  banged  by  brother 
Boreas  all  day.  Of  all  things  I  despise  a  wind, 
and  we  have  had  nothing  else,  and  I  'm  con 
vinced  there  's  an  unlimited  supply  where  this 
comes  from.  The  first  six  hours  were  heavenly 
calm.  Two  song  sparrows  followed  the  vessel 
till  almost  out  of  sight  of  land.  One  dear  bird 
came  and  lit  close  to  me  on  a  rope,  clinging 
with  his  slender  feet,  panting,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "Keally,  I  'm  all  out  of  breath,  but  I  had 


100  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  [1880 

to  come  after  you,  comrade,  to  say  good- by." 
Wasn't  it  sweet?  I  was  so  delighted.  No 
other  bird  would  have  so  moved  me. 

I  hear  the  boisterous  pipe.  I  am  sure  they 
are  setting  more  sail:  the  ship  does  not  seem 
quite  so  much  as  if  she  were  trying  to  stand 
on  her  smokestack,  and  scrape  the  zenith  with 
her  keel,  this  morning. 

Up  on  deck,  noon.  Oh  the  blasts  and  the 
flying  foam!  And  they  heave  the  log,  and  we 
are  going  thirteen  knots  an  hour ;  and  the  hoary 
sea  is  a  great,  raging,  roaring  waste,  water  fly 
ing  so  that  the  captain  had  to  come  way  aft 
here  to  my  cubby-hole  under  the  life-boat  to 
"take  the  sun."  Seven  compasses  on  board 
this  boat  and  a  man  at  each;  and  the  man  at 
the  wheel,  his  solemn,  motionless,  level  eyelids 
are  most  impressive.  He  sees  nothing  but  that 
compass  night  and  day.  Mr.  F.  says  he  has 
been  over  lots  of  times,  and  a  more  uncomfort 
able  passage  he  never  had,  on  account  of  the 
tremendous  wind  that  will  not  cease  a  minute. 

We *  reached  Liverpool  Tuesday  morning.  Mon 
day  night  (when  we  were  to  sight  Fastnet  Light) 
I  was  up  at  two  o'clock.  Pitch-dark  of  course, 

1  To  Annie  Fields.  Red  Horse  Inn,  Stratford  on  Avon, 
Friday,  October  15,  1880. 


1880)  LETTERS   OF   CELT  A   TJI^XTER  lift. 

but  the  boatswain  was  piping  like  a  whole  wood 
full  of  robins  up  on  deck,  and  the  mariners  made 
night  vocal  with  yo-ho-ing.  Our  means  of  light 
was  shut  and  locked  fast  between  our  state 
rooms,  but  I  was  n't  born  in  Yankee  land  for  no 
thing.  I  pushed  up  the  ground-glass  slide  and 
scratched  a  contraband  and  surreptitious  match, 
and,  lo !  an  illumination.  On  deck  it  was  black 
as  Erebus,  a  vast  chill,  with  a  fresh  wind  al 
ways  ahead.  But  we  sat  on  the  great  metal 
sarcophagus  covered  with  canvas  (that  the  bath 
water  is  heated  in)  between  the  smokestack 
and  the  captain's  cabin,  with  our  feet  over  the 
cook's  big  range,  where  fires  were  still  burning, 
and  it  was  very  comfortable,  especially  as  they 
brought  us  hot  coffee  at  once;  and  then  we 
watched  the  rockets  sent  up  from  our  ship  and 
the  answering  signals  from  the  invisible  shore, 
and  it  was  so  nice  to  think  how  the  telegram 
would  directly  speed  across  the  world  and  you 
would  all  read,  "The  Batavia  is  in! "  and  think 
of  us.  Such  a  glorious  dawn  at  last!  such  a 
heavenly  sunrise  and  the  Irish  coast,  divine  in 
color  and  new,  strange  shapes ;  the  hurrying  sea, 
all  peacock-blue  and  green;  and  the  most  ex 
traordinary  craft  flying  about  with  delicious  dull- 
red  sails  that  I  sketched  all  day. 

We  went  to  St.   George's  Hall   and  to  the 


•i02         ,  LFT^RS  ,OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1880 


Art  Exhibition,  and  that  was  very  nice,  for 
there  were  many  charming  pictures,  and  we  sat 
and  rested  and  looked  at  them.  While  we  sat, 
about  a  hundred  work-house  children  —  girls  — 
came  up  for  a  lark,  and  anything  so  sweet  and 
quaint  and  clean  and  pretty  I  had  never  seen. 
Cheeks  like  carnations,  and  bright  eyes  and 
smooth  shining  hair,  and  the  nicest  little  cos 
tume  of  dark  blue,  and  each  with  a  white  straw 
bonnet  of  old-time  shape,  with  dark-blue  rib 
bon  crossed  over  top  and  tied  under  chin,  all 
alike,  as  if  they  had  been  turned  out  of  a  ma 
chine  by  the  gross.  I  can't  tell  you  how  we 
enjoyed  it.  Then  the  good  captain  met  us  and 
took  us  down  to  Koby  to  dine  with  him,  and 
wasn't  it  just  like  a  chapter  out  of  Dickens, 
oh  my  !  —  "Kosina  Cottage,"  just  at  the  back 
of  the  station,  all  smothered  in  green  things 
and  full  of  yellow-haired  children,  papa's  slip 
pers  warming  before  the  fire,  arid  an  atmosphere 
of  unmitigated  loving-kindness  pervading  the 
whole  place.  Oh,  how  they  worshiped  each 
other  !  It  was  beautiful  to  see,  and  this  poor 
man  is  dying  to  get  away  from  the  howling 
seas  and  stay  with  them  for  evermore.  Hea 
ven  grant  he  may  !  Next  morning  was  bright 
and  sunny.  We  went  up  on  the  old  Roman 
wall  round  the  city,  and  oh,  and  oh,  what  a 


1880]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  103 

morning  we  had !  We  loitered  all  round  that 
wall,  two  miles,  and  every  step  was  charming. 
The  lookout,  near  and  far,  was  so  enchanting. 
You  know  it  all,  of  course,  but  everything  is 
so  new  to  us,  and  every  smallest  detail,  even  to 
the  shape  and  color  of  every  brick,  so  different 
and  strange.  In  the  Phoenix  tower  a  nice  girl 
lay  in  wait  for  us  with  guidebooks  and  photo 
graphs.  We  took  a  guide  and  wandered  away 
perfectly  happy,  studying  as  we  went.  Oh, 
what  a  splendid  old  people,  fighting  so  hard 
for  their  lives,  building  like  this,  under  every 
difficulty,  such  a  defense!  Oh,  well,  I  might 
write  all  day  of  Chester  wall,  but  I  suppose 
there  is  something  else  in  the  world;  we  spent 
our  whole  time  on  it,  and  after  we  had  taken 
a  peep  at  the  Cathedral  it  was  high  time  for 
our  dinner,  for  we  started  for  Stratford  at  two; 
so  we  rushed,  and  didn't  enter  Chester  town 
at  all !  But  we  saw  enough  to  stay  with  us 
all  our  lives.  We  must  allow  more  time  for 
places  in  future.  Our  journey  here  was  one 
series  of  pleasures.  When  we  got  to  Wolver- 
ton  we  said,  "This  must  be  Birmingham," 
for  we  thought  there  couldn't  be  more  smoke; 
but  Bloomsbury  was  thicker  yet;  and  when  we 
arrived  at  Birmingham  Oscar  said,  "This  is 
surely  h itself!"  and  it  did  look  like  it. 


104  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER          [1880 

Smoke  and  flame  everywhere  and  the  blackness 
of  darkness.  We  changed  there,  waiting  twenty 
minutes.  I  won't  go  into  waiting-rooms,  but 
sit  with  Oscar  on  the  broad  benches  outside 
to  see,  and  oh  the  fun!  I  can't  tell  you,  dear 
James  and  dear  Annie,  how  hopelessly  in  love 
I  am  with  the  English  girls.  Oh,  their  sweet 
seriousness,  their  dove-like  eyes,  their  lovely 
contours,  their  fresh,  delicious  color,  their 
smiling  mouths,  with  such  grave  and  noble 
curves,  their  modest  mien,  and  flocks  of  them 
everywhere,  a  feast  to  the  eyes,  a  refreshment 
to  the  soul!  It  is  worth  coming  to  England 
only  to  see  them.  At  Stratford  it  was  dark; 
we  got  into  the  Red  Horse  coach,  and  an  old 
duffer  beside  got  in,  and  presently  he  put  his 
head  out  of  window  and  growled,  "Haw!  Now 
then !  Are  yer  comin'  ?  Come  on,  then !  Ye 
always  let  the  Shakespeare  'bus  go  first.7' 
"Comin',  comin',  sir,"  said  the  struggling 
driver,  wrestling  with  his  packages  (not  ours). 
Oscar  and  I  nearly  went  off  again,  nudging 
each  other  in  the  dark.  That  English  growl, 
it  was  too  funny.  As  for  the  Eed  Horse  Inn, 
it  is  too  charming  to  be  believed.  We  had  our 
supper  in  a  cozy  coffee-room  by  ourselves. 


1880]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  105 

Gold  carnations !  Yes,  just  as  true  as  you  l  live, 
cloth-of-gold  carnations!  I  saw  them  heaped  in 
a  shop  window;  the  color  of  those  great  gold 
roses  at  home  (Marshal  —  what  do  you  call 
them  ?).  With  these  eyes  I  saw  them  just  now ! 
Oh  this  place !  it  is  so  charming !  One  eter 
nal  and  chronic  Italian  opera  all  day  and  all 
night.  Such  great  basses  and  tenors  superbly 
sounding  through  the  night;  such  flashing  dark 
eyes  and  midnight  hair;  and  men  of  all  sorts 
and  sizes,  all  wearing  long  cloaks  with  one  end 
cast  over  the  shoulder  with  a  grace  which  is 
indescribable;  and  women  wearing  over  the 
head  a  square  of  black  lace,  one  corner  gathered 
over  the  head,  the  rest  falling  over  the  shoul 
ders  and  down  the  back  —  oh,  so  lovely ! 
Every  woman  wears  this  headgear,  of  poorer  or 
richer  materials,  and  to  the  older  and  more 
scraggy  it  gives  a  kind  of  dignity  and  grace; 
but  on  the  young  and  fair,  ye  gods !  how  beau 
tiful  it  is!  Oh,  the  sights  in  the  streets!  how 
fascinating!  Last  night  we  went  out,  soon 
after  we  arrived,  into  the  splendid  arcade 
through  the  square,  where  the  colossal  statue  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  loomed  white  in  the  moon 
light,  with  the  four  pupils  at  the  corners  of  the 
lofty  pedestal.  Through  the  wonderful  arcada 
l  To  Annie  Fields.  Milan,  November  14, 1880. 


106  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1880 

we  passed,  —  it  was  all  glittering  with  shops 
and  royal  stuffs  and  jewels,  — and  out  into  the 
square  beyond,  where  the  cathedral  lifted  its 
forest  of  white  marble  spires,  like  frostwork,  to 
the  moon;  wonderful,  wonderful!  This  morn 
ing  we  climbed  up  and  out  on  its  roof  in  the 
midst  of  those  exquisite  spires,  each  with  its 
statue  atop.  The  city  lay  half  in  soft  haze 
below,  half  revealed  —  a  lovely  picture.  This 
afternoon  we  went  to  a  great  performance  in  the 
cathedral.  The  immense  interior  was  filled  with 
a  great  multitude.  There  were  clouds  of  in 
cense,  and  cords  of  golden  crosses  and  tons  of  can 
dles  flaring.  The  long  procession  moved  round 
the  church  among  the  people  with  singing,  chant 
ing,  and  organ- play  ing.  I  saw  a  priest  the  liv 
ing  image  of  John  G.  Whittier,  and  a  younger 
one  who  looked  like  my  Roland.  But  a  great 
many  of  them  were  very  piggy  indeed.  Oh, 
their  laces,  their  silks,  their  gold  and  silver 
and  precious  stones,  their  bowing  and  courtesy- 
ing,  how  tedious!  how  like  the  dancing  of  the 
common  Lancers  of  our  country !  But  the  peo 
ple!  Oh,  the  pathos  of  it  all!  Every  face  a 
study!  Such  devotion,  such  love  and  sorrow 
and  fearful  hope !  In  all  the  service  in  England 
and  everywhere  there  is  but  one  cry  to  which 
my  heart  responds.  It  seems  the  one  significant 


1880]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  107 

utterance.  It  is,  "Lord  have  mercy  upon  us," 
helpless  and  defenseless  that  we  are.  It  seems 
to  me  the  whole  thing  might  be  simplified  into 
that  one  cry. 

Venice,  16th  November.  I  wish  you  were 
here  to  tell  me  whether  or  no  I  've  got  to  hea 
ven  before  my  time !  Last  night,  in  a  wonder 
of  white  moonlight,  we  glided  into  this  marvel 
of  the  world.  Out  of  the  dark  railroad  station 
we  emerged  into  the  moonlight,  on  the  stone 
steps  where  the  gondolas  were  drawn  up  black 
against  the  quay.  We  were  put  on  board  one  of 
these  curious,  charming  things,  and  waited  while 
our  baggage  was  hunted  up.  The  cushioned 
seats  were  delightful  after  the  rush  and  jar  of 
the  railroad  car,  the  long-continued  rattle  of  the 
express  train.  How  delicious  it  was,  —  the  rest 
and  quiet,  the  balmy  air,  the  salt  odors,  the 
sheen  of  moonlight  on  the  glassy  tide,  the  hun 
dreds  of  lamps  reflected  from  houses,  gondolas, 
all  kinds  of  craft,  the  delicious  language  in  which 
the  boatmen  talked  and  called  to  each  other! 

If  you  see  Hamilton  Wilde,  do  tell  him 
what  pleasure  I  have  had  in  meeting  some 
friends  of  his  here,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Field. 
They  happened  to  see  a  letter  addressed  to  me, 
and  when  we  arrived  Mr.  Field  came  and  spoke 
to  me,  and  it  has  been  a  real  pleasure.  Please 


108  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  [1880 

give  my  kind  regards  to  H.  W.,  if  you  see  him, 
and  tell  him  Mrs.  Field  plays  Beethoven 
over  my  head  like  an  angel.  My  room,  —  the 
only  one  to  be  had,  did  I  tell  you  ?  —  is  over  the 
Grand  Canal.  Such  a  room!  vast,  with  fres 
coes  and  carvings,  and  only  seven  mirrors,  dear, 
that's  all,  and  two  white  marble  balconies, 
and  four  great  doors  beside  the  proper  one 
for  human  nature's  daily  use,  and  Heaven 
knows  what,  in  it.  I'm  almost  afraid  of  it 
when  I  think  what  has  gone  on  here.  Oh,  if 
only  there  were  such  a  thing  as  time  in  this 
world!  Here  are  fourteen  letters  in  my  last 
budget  waiting  to  be  answered ;  and  here  is  all 
heaven  outside  the  windows,  and  it 's  just  after 
sunset,  and  a  man's  voice  —  tenor,  fine,  clear, 
sweet,  sonorous  —  is  thrilling  the  beautiful  dusk, 
heavens !  as  if  he  were  Love  himself  and  Venus 
were  lending  her  ear  from  Olympus.  He  has 
got  a  guitar,  and  how  can  I  collect  my  wits 
enough  to  tell  you  anything!  What  have  we 
done  ?  Why,  the  Palace  of  the  Doges  first,  and 
it  pretty  nearly  finished  me.  We  went  into 
the  dungeons  over  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  They 
left  us  in  the  dark  a  moment  in  the  cell  where 
Byron  stayed  twelve  hours.  We  saw  the  fix 
tures  left  in  the  walls  outside  in  the  passage  for 
strangling,  and  the  guillotine,  and  three  round 


1880]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  109 

holes  in  the  floor  for  the  red  current  to  lose 
itself  and  disappear.  Bismilleh !  It  was  hor 
rible  !  This  after  the  splendors  of  the  palace ! 
Oh,  St.  Mark's!  The  marbles,  the  alabaster, 
the  mosaics,  the  carvings !  No  wonder  Kuskin 
went  stark,  staring  mad !  For  me,  I  can't  tear 
my  eyes  away  from  the  pavements  long  enough 
to  get  at  the  paintings  and  the  incredible  ceil 
ings,  to  say  nothing  of  what  lies  between.  We 
went  to  the  tip-top  of  the  Campanile,  nothing 
short  of  it.  A  man  on  horseback  can  ride  to 
the  top,  the  ascent  is  so  easy.  Napoleon  the 
First  did  so.  There  are  no  stairs.  But,  dear 
me,  you  know  all  these  things ;  why  waste  I  my 
fruitless  breath?  Oh,  the  shops,  the  jewels,  the 
glass,  the  work  in  gold  and  silver,  the  photo 
graphs  !  We  went  to  the  Palazzo  Giovenelli  to 
day;  that  was  a  palace!  The  prince  and  po 
tentate  who  owns  it  was  living  there,  but  they 
let  us  see  it.  Talk  about  the  Arabian  Nights! 
Aladdin's  palace  was  a  woodshed.  And  such 
pictures,  0  ye  gods !  Titian,  and  Paul  Veronese, 
and  Tintoret,  and  Salvator  Eosa,  lots  besides. 
Oh,  the  walls,  ceilings,  floors  of  delicious  marble 
mosaics,  the  superb  upholstery !  What 's  the 
use!  I  give  it  up.  We  went  down  to  the 
shores  of  the  open  Adriatic  and  picked  up 
shells;  they  were  delicate  and  exquisite.  We 


110  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1880 

floated  in  the  gondola  when  we  came  back  up 
and  down  the  Grand  Canal  in  the  sunset,  half 
a  mile  beyond  the  Bialto  and  past  such  pal 
aces  !  Oh,  the  "  stones  of  Venice  "  in  the  facades 
of  these  palaces  centuries  old,  the  beautiful  col 
ored  marbles  set  in  the  white,  still  precious  in 
color!  Annie,  the  water  is  peacock- blue  or 
green  the  livelong  time;  and  as  for  the  sails, 
they  are  color  gone  mad!  Such  old  gold,  and 
tawny  richness  of  red  and  orange,  and  their 
shapes!  Indescribable!  The  gondolas  are  the 
most  elegant  things;  their  shape,  their  uniform 
black,  set  off  with  the  glittering  brass  sea 
horses  or  dragons,  polished  like  glass  on  the 
gunwale  eaUi  side.  The  carving  and  brass  work 
on  some  of  them  is  very  rich.  And  the  men 
who  engineer  them  with  such  grace  and  dex 
terity,  so  that  they  glide  like  magic  in  the  nar 
rowest  watery  ways,  no  matter  how  crowded, 
these  men  are  so  picturesque!  some  bit  of 
bright  color  about  them  almost  always,  red  or 
orange  or  blue;  and  such  shapes  of  caps!  and 
such  eyes  under!  and  such  hair!  Well,  what 
is  the  use!  This  afternoon  we  saw  Titian's 
dear  little  virgin  in  a  blue  gown  going  up  the 
steps,  with  the  priests  standing  above  her  and 
the  people  below.  What  a  dear!  Do  you 
know,  I  am  so  impressed  with  pictures  and  busta 


1880]  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  111 

of  Titian,  though  taken  at  a  great  age  (think 
of  his  living  to  be  ninety-nine  and  then  dy 
ing  of  the  plague!),  they  are  so  like  William 
Hunt. 


We *  do  so  rush  I  can't  get  time  to  write,  and  I 
get  so  tired  that  it  is  seldom  I  can  write  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  as  I  am  doing  now. 
But  it 's  my  only  chance.  Have  you  been  here  ? 
I  have  forgotten.  God  made  it  the  divinest 
place.  Men  have  converted  it  into  a  pigsty  of 
unspeakable  squalor.  The  best  thing  that  could 
happen  to  it  would  be  to  have  Vesuvius  roll  a 
league  or  so  of  red-hot  lava  over  it  and  sweep 
away  or  bury  it  deep,  like  Herculaneum  and 
Pompeii,  and  end  it  some  way.  North  Street  in 
Boston  is  clean  and  sweet  and  wholesome  to  it. 
It  is  n't  one  street,  it  is  the  whole  great  swarm 
ing  town.  We  ride  through  miles  of  it  to  get 
to  any  place.  Up  on  the  heights  are  palaces  and 
fine  houses,  and  an  approximately  clean  street, 
where  carriages  and  toilettes  rival  the  Champs 
Elysees,  but,  ye  gods !  the  whole  town  along  the 
sea  border!  No  drainage,  everything  in  the 
streets;  no  windows  to  the  houses;  no  human 
creatures  who  ever  combed  their  hair  or  washed 
their  faces  since  they  were  born;  ten  thousand 
l  To  Annie  Fields.  Naples,  December  8, 1880. 


112  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1880 

million  billion  filthy  babies !  There  is  not  a  ray 
of  joy  or  decency  in  the  place;  the  only  cheer 
ful  element  in  Naples  is  the  all-pervading  flea! 
King  Humbert  and  Margherita  are  in  their  yel 
low-pink  palace.  Great  Heaven !  can  they  not 
find  some  way  to  turn  the  whole  Mediterranean 
in  on  their  nasty  city!  Oh  well,  enough! 
Pardon ! 

Our  hotel  is  high  up  above  the  smells.  Be 
fore  us  lies  Capri,  melting  in  sapphire  and  ame 
thyst.  The  Mediterranean  is  wondrous;  it  is 
like  the  Arabian  Nights.  Tongue  can't  tell  its 
color,  —  its  greens,  blues,  purples,  its  lambent 
light.  It's  not  like  water;  it's  like  leaping, 
liquid,  prismatic  flame  all  about  its  delicious 
islands.  Its  very  substance  is  colored,  as  if 
you  dripped  the  fine  brilliant  blue  color  we 
have  for  washing  clothes,  you  know,  into  a  cup 
of  water;  it  doesn't  owe  alone  its  marvel 
ous  effects  to  reflections  from  the  sky.  We 
see  Vesuvius  smoking  away,  the  broad,  red-hot 
band  of  lava  down  its  black  side.  Just  this 
moment  it  is  splendid,  its  great  dark  mass 
heaved  high  against  the  crystal- pure  sunrise 
sky;  not  a  cloud  in  the  whole  heaven  except 
the  mountain's  own  long,  floating  plume  that 
trails  across  the  sky  from  east  to  west,  and 
catches  all  the  faint  rose-tints  of  the  coming 


1880]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  113 

sun.  It  is  so  beautiful !  From  whence  did  I 
write  last,  dear  friend  ?  Ah  me,  I  am  in  such 
a  rush,  as  if  I  were  tangled  in  the  tail  of  a 
comet!  I  can't  remember. 

Then  we  came  to  Rome.  Oh,  but  going  to 
Florence  I  saw  the  first  stone-pine  and  the  first 
olive  trees;  how  beautiful  they  are!  Stone- 
pine,  olive,  cypress,  each  one  is  a  poem.  Oh, 
the  Campagna!  If  I  had  time  to  talk!  But 
the  daisies!  I  thought  of  you  every  minute. 
The  first  day  of  December  I  gathered  violets, 
and  I  went  to  the  grave  of  Keats.  I  can't 
tell  you  with  what  a  feeling  I  dropped  over  the 
ashes  of  his  heart  the  most  perfect  rose  it  has 
ever  been  my  lot  to  behold,  one  from  Vedder's 
bouquet,  every  flower  of  which  an  artist's  eye 
selected.  I  send  you  a  violet  leaf  I  gathered 
from  that  little  lonely  grave,  and  a  rose  leaf 
from  Shelley's,  not  far  away.  I  scattered  some 
daisies  over  Shelley's.  Some  one  had  been 
before  me  to  both  places,  and  a  spike  of  clus 
tered,  fragrant  narcissus  flowers,  waxen  white, 
was  dying  on  each  grave. 

Well,  we  came  here  on  Thursday.  Friday 
we  spent  the  whole  day  in  Pompeii,  that  is,  it 
took  us  the  whole  day  to  drive  there  through 
Portici  and  Besina,  and  go  through  the  only  half' 
Unburied  city  and  back  at  six  in  evening.  It 


114  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [188C 

was  breathlessly  interesting;  excavations  still 
going  on;  something  new  revealed  every  mo 
ment.  We  watched  them  digging.  Oh  for  time 
to  tell!  Saturday  we  went  to  Baiae,  through 
Posilippo  and  Pozzuoli.  No  end  of  Roman 
ruins  and  Greek  traces,  the  vast  remains  of  an 
ancient  city  all  along  the  coast. 

Alas,  here  comes  the  sun!  I  must  stop. 
Sunday  we  went  to  top  of  Vesuvius,  and  burned 
our  shoes  on  the  hot  lava;  Monday  to  Capri; 
yesterday  to  Herculaneum,  and  to  the  most 
marvelous,  exquisite  aquariums  here  on  the  Med 
iterranean  border.  Oh,  such  dreams  of  beauty ! 
Such  colors  and  delicate  shapes  of  weed,  coral, 
anemone,  and  myriad  undreamed-of  things! 
and  fearful  octopus  swimming  about,  the  most 
dreadful  creature  I  have  ever  seen.  To-day 
we  go  to  the  Museum.  They  say  it  needs  a 
week;  all  the  treasures  of  Pompeii  and  Hercu 
laneum.  To-morrow  back  to  Rome.  In  Flor 
ence  I  moused  till  I  found  your  Dante's  fresco 
on  the  wall,  and  brought  away  a  photo  of  it. 
Saw  "Sasso  di  Dante  "  in  the  square,  written  on 
the  wall  below  which  the  small  iron  bench  used 
to  be,  where  he  liked  to  sit,  near  Giotto's 
lovely  Campanile ;  saw  his  house  with  the  sweet 
inscription  over  the  door.  Went  all  over 
Michael  Angelo's  house;  oh,  wasn't  that  in- 


1880]          LETTERS   OF   CELT  A   THAXTER  115 

teresting!  Saw  his  old  paint  brushes,  writing 
desk,  sword,  plans  of  St.  Peter's,  etc.,  manu 
scripts,  etc. 

Mrs.  Thaxter's  letter  from  Genoa  was  one 
of  the  most  delightful  of  the  series.  It  was 
written  on  Christmas  Eve,  when,  after  de 
scribing  her  visits  to  the  palaces  and  her  un 
speakable  pleasure  in  their  beauty  and  their 
pictures,  she  continues  with  a  detailed  de 
scription  of  three  visits  upon  three  successive 
days  to  the  Villa  Novello,  where  Mrs.  Cow- 
den  Clarke,  Miss  Novello,  and  their  brother 
received  her  with  open  arms  and  with  their 
accustomed  hospitality. 

The  carriage-way  [of  the  Villa  Novello  at  Christ 
mas]  was  edged  with  roses.  ...  I  entered  a 
lovely  hall  with  Pompeiian  frescoes  on  the  wall 
and  a  floor  of  mosaic;  the  butler  showed  me 
upstairs  through  a  kind  of  picture  gallery  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  music  room.  There 
they  all  were  and  came  forward  to  greet  me. 
They  were  playing  at  two  grand  pianos,  so  I 
begged  them  to  go  on  (Mrs.  Clarke's  two  nieces 
at  one  piano,  Miss  Novello  and  the  maestro  at 
another).  They  played  the  Italian  symphony 
of  Mendelssohn.  As  I  sat  and  listened  I  had 
an  opportunity  of  taking  in  the  room  and  its 
details.  In  the  first  place  it  fronted  the  whole 


116  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1880 

magnificent  Mediterranean  and  it  was  light  and 
lofty,  and  the  windows  each  one  immense  plate 
of  flawless  crystal  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor; 
it  was  as  if  it  were  open  on  the  side  toward  the 
sea.  I  could  hardly  believe  there  was  anything 
between  us  and  the  outer  air.  Walls  and  ceil 
ing  were  decorated  with  fresh  and  delicate  fres 
coes,  with  a  light  arabesque  of  gold  running 
gracefully  about  among  the  flowers  and  figures 
and  landscapes;  the  whole  room  was  what  you 
would  expect,  tasteful  and  charming.  After 
the  music  was  done  the  'maestro  departed,  and 
then  we  had  a  long  talk.  After  sunset  we 
all  went  into  the  dining-room,  because  it  was 
warmer,  —  a  lovely,  pleasant  room.  Oh,  the 
flowers !  Oh,  the  roses !  Bella  Madonna !  who 
shall  tell?  With  all  outdoors  gone  mad  with 
flowers,  you  can  imagine  how  it  might  look 
within.  After  dinner,  which  was  so  gay,  we 
went  into  Mrs.  Clarke's  library,  and  by  the 
open  fire  talked  and  told  stories!  Could  I  but 
tell  you  about  Mrs.  Clarke's  cap.  Such  a  mesh 
of  cobweb  lace,  —  frostwork  caught  and  fixed, 
—  a  little  satin  rosette  like  a  flower ! 

Directly  after  Christmas   the  brother  and 
sister  took  up  their  rapid  flight  homeward. 
Lyons.      Friday   morning    in    a  gray  glimmer* 
Oh,  the  unaccustomed  pinch   of   the  cold  this 


1880]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  117 

morning !  The  first  thing  I  see  out  of  the  win 
dow  is  a  string  of  horses,  with  all  their  tails  done 
up  in  incorrigible  hard  knots,  dragging  cartloads 
of  ice  in  blocks.  Everybody  blows  his  or  her 
fingers,  or  crams  hands  in  pockets  or  muffs; 
everybody  is  hooded,  cloaked,  shrouded,  shiver 
ing.  Clearly  we  have  come  the  wrong  way! 
Dear  me,  the  street  is  so  interesting!  I  have 
dragged  my  table  close  to  the  window;  there  is 
hardly  light  enough  to  paint  yet.  I  have  a 
bunch  of  anemones  I  've  brought  all  the  way 
from  Nice,  from  pillar  to  post,  with  their  stems 
in  a  bottle  of  water,  trying  to  paint  them  care 
fully,  faithfully,  lovingly.  But,  Lord  bless 
you,  there  is  no  time  and  no  light!  However, 
I'm  going  to  do  it  all  the  same;  have  it  half 
done.  I  suppose  after  breakfast  we  shall,  as 
Carl  Weiss  says,  "take  a  little  keb"  (which 
means  an  open  carriage  really)  and  go  round 
to  see  the  town,  and  try  to  see  silk  manufac 
tories  and  such.  Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry  to  miss 
Bjornson!  more  than  Bernhardt.  If  there  is 
anything  I  love  it 's  Arne.  Do  give  my  love 
to  dear  Whittier  if  you  see  him.  Say  I  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  him,  and  to  Jenny  Hunt;  pray 
tell  her,  with  my  love,  I  did  write  to  her;  and 
say  I  shall  see  Mr.  Dickinson  in  London  if 
I  'm  alive  and  he  is.  Had  a  note  from  Mrs. 


118  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1881 

D.  a  few  days  ago.  0  my  darling,  I  'm  rush 
ing  against  time  and  my  flowers  are  fading ! 

Here l  we  are  at  last  in  this  frozen  Paris,  where 
everybody  has  a  red  nose.  Alas,  to  have  left 
that  golden  Eiviera  for  this  arch  enemy  of  a 
climate !  When  we  left  Nice  we  spent  one  day 
in  Cannes,  and  went  over  to  the  Island  of 
St.  Marguerite  and  saw  where  Marshal  Bazaine 
got  over  the  wall,  and  the  prison  of  the  Iron 
Mask.  Much  I  cared  for  all  that!  Down  1 
sat  upon  a  stone  near  the  beach,  and  tried  to 
sketch  an  old  well  with  an  ancient  water  jar  on 
its  broad  stone  edge,  and  a  wall  behind  it  over 
which  the  oranges  hung  their  gold,  and  beyond, 
the  soft,  soft  sky.  Ah  that  sky  and  this  sky ! 
There  's  a  difference!  The  great  carmine  anem 
ones  I  found  at  Cannes,  and  the  rose-colored 
ones;  and  the  armful  of  eucalyptus  I  bought 
for  two  sous  from  a  pretty  peasant  girl  sitting 
on  a  low  wall  by  the  roadside;  and  the  field  of 
peas  in  blossom,  rich,  royal  purple  —  common 
peas  such  as  we  eat,  clad  like  Solomon  in  all 
his  glory !  All  along  the  Riviera  we  saw  fields 
of  them  white  with  bloom;  but  purple  ones, 
who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing!  Old  Cannes 

1  To  James  and  Annie  Fields.     Hotel  de  Normandy 
Paris,  January  18,  1881. 


1881]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  119 

was  most  quaint  and  charming,  new  Cannes  full 
of  lord-grand-high-nabob  English.  Alackaday, 
how  sick  the  poor  things  were,  many  of  them! 
From  there  we  posted  to  Marseilles,  and  that 
was  queer  enough,  older  than  old,  brimful  of 
interest,  only  there  was  n't  time  to  half  investi 
gate  it.  The  old  and  new  harbors  entertained 
my  brother  much,  and  me,  too.  We  poked 
about  along  them  a  whole  morning.  The  ships, 
from  all  lands  and  climes  (packed  like  sardines 
side  by  side,  with  their  bowsprits  over  the  one 
long  wharf  that  edged  the  border  of  the  tideless 
sea),  nearly  pitched  their  cargoes  out  upon  our 
heads  over  their  bows  as  we  threaded  our  devi 
ous  way  beneath.  There  were  peanuts  and  palm 
nuts,  and  beans  and  coffee  and  cocoa  and  grain, 
and  bales  of  mummy  wraps  to  be  made  into 
"  shoddy  "  (the  mummies  themselves  being  used 
to  feed  the  engines  on  the  railroad,  my  worship 
ful  friends!  Oh,  have  n't  I  got  some  tales,  some 
"traveler's  tales,"  to  tell!).  There  was  cotton 
seed,  wherewith  to  adulterate  the  olive  oil !  We 
left  Marseilles  for  Lyons  on  Thursday,  the  13th, 
in  the  rain,  and  in  seven  hours  we  steamed  from 
bloom  and  summer  into  frost  and  winter.  Half 
way  we  lost  the  last  dear  stone-pines  and  precious 
olive  trees;  soon  we  saw  thin  ice  and  sprinkled 
snow;  and  by  the  time  we  reached  Lyons  and 


120  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1881 

the  delightful  little  "Hotel  de  PUnivers"  it 
was  bitter,  oh,  bitter  cold!  We  left  there  Fri 
day  morning,  but  first  we  saw  the  silk  manu 
factories  and  a  museum  full  of  all  sorts  of  won 
derful  things  found  in  the  Rhone  and  the  Saone 
and  in  and  about  Lyons,  —  traces  of  the  all-pow 
erful  Romans,  and  Etruscan  ornaments,  jewels, 
vases,  statues,  everything  one  sees  from  old 
tombs  and  palaces  about  Rome  and  Ostia  and  all 
those  places;  beautiful  golden  ornaments,  like 
the  Schliemann  treasures  of  Troy,  and  oh,  the 
slender  finger- rings  of  gold !  I  can't  tell  you  how 
they  touch  me,  thinking  of  the  hands  that  have 
slipped  out  of  them  ages  ago !  —  how  they  were 
clasped  in  friendship,  when  hand  met  hand, 
those  little  rings,  how  many  daily  acts  of  life  they 
shared.  I  am  thinking  of  the  women's  rings 
especially ;  their  name  is  legion :  those  that  were 
found  in  Pompeii  made  me  hold  my  breath. 
Oh,  that  wonderful  Pompeii!  Did  I  tell  you 
at  Rome  of  the  lady  next  me  at  the  table  d'hote 
to  whom  I  talked  of  Pompeii,  saying  I  wished 
I  could  only  have  stayed  there  as  long  as  I 
wanted  to.  She  opened  her  slightly  supercil 
ious  English  eyes  with  slow  surprise,  and  with 
that  most  peculiar  intonation,  that  slow  drawl, 
that  curiously  aspirated  sort  of  speech,  "How 
extraordinary!"  she  breathed;  "I  found  it  ex- 


1881]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  121 

tremely  dull !  "  Did  I  tell  you  of  the  party  of 
Americans  from  New  York,  traveling  with  a 
courier,  we  met  at  Naples,  and  afterwards  at  the 
Capitol  at  Borne  again,  and  the  lady  came  up 
to  me  and  begged  me  to  go  with  her  to  look  at 
a  certain  statue  near  the  entrance,  which  I  did, 
and  beheld  a  quite  unusually  developed  Diana 
with  bow  and  quiver,  hound  at  knee,  and  cres 
cent  above  brow,  complete  ?  "  Our  courier  de 
clares  it  is  a  statue  of  Julius  Caesar! "  she  said; 
"now  is  iU  "  "Well,"  I  said,  "if  Caesar  had 
a  figure  like  this,  being  a  man,  he  was  a  phe 
nomenon  ! "  Then  I  saw  that  the  pedestal  of 
the  statue  had  an  inscription  with  something 
about  Caesar  Imperator  on  it,  but  it  was  so 
absurd  I  nearly  died  of  laughter  on  the  spot. 
The  lady's  aggrieved  expression  was  too  funny 
—  instead  of  telling  the  courier  to  go  where  the 
woodbine  twineth,  and  using  the  modicum  of 
brains  wherewith  a  merciful  Providence  had 
furnished  her! 

Well,  we  left  Lyons  and  went  to  Dijon,  and 
it  grew  more  bitterly  cold  all  the  time,  and  in 
that  queer  little  town,  at  the  Hotel  de  Jura,  we 
had  very  cold  noses  indeed;  and  Sunday,  in 
the  morn,  we  started  for  Paris,  and  were  all 
day  getting  here  through  a  snowstorm,  and  I 
amused  myself  all  the  way  writing  some  verses 


122  LETTERS   OF   CELIA    THAXTER  [1881 

for  "St.  Nicholas"  (about  a  dear  little  old-fash 
ioned  girl  I  saw  washing  a  window  in  Zurich 
town  as  we  steamed  out  of  it  after  two  hours' 
stay),  for  the  cars  joggled  too  much  to  write  let 
ters,  and  I  couldn't  see  an  earthly  thing  out 
side.  Oh,  I  have  not  lost  one  fraction  of  a  sec 
ond  of  time  since  we  landed  on  this  side  the 
world.  But  I  have  been  whirled  like  a  leaf  in 
a  hurricane  almost  all  the  time,  so  many  intense 
impressions  following  so  fast  one  upon  another. 
Evening,  18th.  We  have  been  out  all  day 
in  this  slippy,  sloppy,  slushy,  sprinkling  Paris, 
for  a  January  thaw  arrived  last  night  and  the 
eaves  weep  copiously  on  the  heads  of  the  popu 
lace,  and  the  streets  are  swimming  away,  and 
it  is  one  of  those  times  that  try  women's  souls 
because  of  their  press  of  canvas  that  absorbs 
the  wet,  and  they  envy  the  lords  of  creation 
that  walk  skirtless  over  the  mud.  We  tried 
to  go  to  the  Louvre,  but  bless  you!  it  wasn't 
open!  For  why?  There  had  been  a  snow 
storm,  and  everything  in  Paris  stops  short  in  a 
snowstorm.  It  was  all  we  could  do  to  get  a 
"little  keb,"  as  Carl  calls  it,  to  bring  us  the 
ten  thousand  miles  from  the  station  here  when 
we  arrived  Sunday  night.  Why  couldn't  we 
go  in  and  see  the  pictures?  "Because  they 
were  cleaning  the  snow  off  the  roof  of  the  build- 


1881]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  123 

ing"!  !  !  !  How  supernatural!  That  is  the 
idiotic  way  they  go  on,  this  side  of  the  world. 
The  Shoalers  would  say,  "  I  guess  they  are  some 
fullish"  (foolish). 

Dear  friends,  I  do  long  to  see  you,  but  I  'm 
awfully  sorry  to  be  going  home,  and  dread  this 
hideous  winter  passage  before  us,  because  I  had 
enough  coming  over,  and  it  will  be  ten  thou 
sand  times  worse  going  back.  It  is  nine 
o'clock,  and  the  Rue  St.  Honore'  beneath  my 
windows  is  roaring  as  if  it  were  midday.  I  'm 
tired  and  chill  and  must  creep  to  bed.  My 
brother  has  gone  to  some  theatre  with  Carl. 
The  open  fire  simmers,  but  it  doesn't  warm 
this  refrigerator  of  a  room.  Ah  me!  The 
Riviera  di  Ponenti,  Monaco,  with  its  walls 
solid  purple  masses  of  heliotrope  and  passion 
flower,  or  pink  with  roses,  and  all  its  rare 
blooms,  and  its  palms  and  cactus,  and  aloe  and 
olive!  Oh  dear,  I  wish  I  were  a  lord  grand 
high  nabob!  You'd  never  see  me  more!  But 
I  'm  only  a  poor  little  pauper  with  a  cold  nose, 
so  I  must  go  home.  Pardon  my  levity.  Paris 
has  got  into  my  head.  I  love  you  better  than 
the  heliotrope,  after  all. 

Oh, l  if  we  could  only  have  stayed  in  those  hea- 
1  London,  January  27, 1881. 


124  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   TIIAXTER          [1881 

venly  places  till  it  moderated  up  here  in  the 
north!  Mr.  Conway  came  in  a  carriage  for  me 
last  night  and  took  me  to  see  Ellen  Terry  and 
Irving  in  Tennyson's  "Cup"  and  "The  Cor- 
sican  Brothers."  She  is  divine!  I  saved 
myself  up  all  day,  and  went  at  the  risk  of  my 
life  almost,  for  the  weather  is  deadly,  but  I 
would  not  have  missed  it  for  anything.  I  know 
you  '11  be  glad  I  saw  Ellen  Terry  and  Irving, 
and  that 's  mostly  why  I  write  just  this  scrawl 
to  send  with  the  playbill.  Such  a  vision! 
Wait  till  I  can  tell  you ! 

In  February  Mrs.  Thaxter  returned  with 
renewed  spirit  and  vigor  to  the  old  surround 
ings. 

I  send  you  *  a  little  poem,  you  beautiful,  dear 
woman!  You  never  gave  me  a  moment's  pain 
in  all  the  ten  years  I  have  known  you.  How 
dear  you  are,  and  lovely  and  good!  Nobody 
knows  it  better  than  I. 

I  have  some  news  to  tell  you.  Don't  whis 
per  it  aloud,  but  the  woman  I  brought  down 
last  seems  to  be,  in  the  language  of  the  vulgar, 
a  trump.  I  hardly  dare  to  think  she  is  so 
good  as  she  seems.  She  flies  like  a  whirlwind, 
without  a  bit  of  noise,  and  work  disappears 
before  her  like  corn  in  a  gristmill,  and  all  is 

l  To  Mrs.  Julius  Eichberg.     Kittery  Point,  October  2* 
1881. 


1881]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  125 

done  well.  She  comes  up  the  cellar  stairs  as 
if  she  were  fired  out  of  a  gun,  only  noiselessly. 
She  is  so  grateful  and  anxious  to  please  I  am 
quite  scared,  and  she  says  the  place  looks  just 
like  the  island  she  came  from,  and  she  isn't 
afraid  of  being  lonesome.  Ye  gods !  °,an  it  be 
that  at  last  my  long  lane  has  found  a  turning  ? 
Scarce  can  I  believe  it. 

Your l  dear  note  last  night.  Thanks  and  thanks. 
A  year  ago  at  this  time  we  were  asleep  in 
Frankfurt.  I  can't  tell  you  with  what  a  wist 
ful  delight  I  remember  and  recall,  day  by  day 
and  hour  by  hour,  our  whereabouts  last  year 
at  this  time;  though  I  was  so  perplexed  and 
wretched,  still  the  memory  of  all  I  saw  and 
heard  and  felt  —  all  that  is  priceless.  I  am 
writing  by  the  kitchen  fire ;  it  is  but  half  past 
five  A.  M.  ,  but  Mr.  Thaxter  did  not  get  off  yester 
day,  and  makes  an  early  start  to-day.  A • 

has  gone  to  "  brush  up "  the  dining-room  and 
lay  the  table.  The  dim  sky  is  growing  lighter 
outside,  the  kettle  sings  over  the  fire,  the  break 
fast,  cooks,  and  I  scribble  a  little  line  to  you. 

Yesterday  I  was  able  to  paint  an  olive  pitcher 
for  Mr.  Ware,  and  he  sent  me  such  a  beautiful 
inscription  in  Greek  to  put  on  it,  and  that  made 
me  think  of  you. 

1  To  Annie  Fielus.     Farm,  November  2,  1881. 


126  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1881 

AEIN  •  OPfiN  •  KYKAOS  • 
AEY22EI  •  NIN  •  MOPIOY  •  AIDS  • 
XA  •  rAAYKimiS  •  A0ANA  • 

I  copied  from  memory,  so  pardon  the  mess  I 
made   of    it.      Do   you   know   what   it   means? 
That  my  olive  trees  are  the  special  care  of  Zeus, 
"watched  by   the   eye   of   olive-guarding   Jove 
and  by  gray-eyed  Athenae."     Isn't  it  charm 
ing?  and   won't    Alice   Howe    like    it    on  her 
bowl?     Mr.   Thaxter  and    Roland    hunted    up 
the  ancient  Greek  letters  for  me  (the  quotation 
comes  from  (Eclipus  Colonos).      Mr.  Ware  only 
sent  them  in  the  modern  Greek  small  letters. 
This  is  the  way  the  inscription  was  written  in 
the  Cumsean  Sibyl's  Cave,   in  these  beautiful 
ancient  characters. 

I l  thought,  when  everybody  went  away  out  of 
the  house,  "Now,  like  the  witches  in  Macbeth, 
•I'll  do,   I'll   do,    I'll   do!'7'  and   I  wish  I 
could   show  you  what   I  have  done,   and  how 
pleasant  and  comfortable  —  nay,  charming  —  it 
looks.      I  have  re-covered  the  couch  with  nice 
brown  cotton  flannel  so  there  's  not  a  wrinkle 
anywhere,  and  it  looks  fine  as  brown  satin;  and 
I  have  covered  the  old  handsome  armchair  I 

1  To  Annie  Fields.      Kittery  Point,  Monday  morning 
November  21,  1881. 


1881]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  127 

bought  in  Portsmouth  with  gold  and  black 
cover,  and  put  brass  nails  round  the  edges. 
What  a  job !  but  it  fits  like  a  Paris  glove,  cush 
ion  and  all.  And  I  made,  of  old-gold-colored, 
soft,  thick  cotton  flannel,  six  curtains  for  these 
windows,  and  put  a  band  of  brown  nearly  a 
foot  wide  at  top  and  bottom,  and  they  are  so 
handsome!  I  thought  of  you  all  the  time  I 
was  making  them.  I  had  no  sewing-machine, 
so  it  took  longer.  I  sewed  seventeen  rings  on 
each  curtain,  and  Karl  helped  me  fit  the  big 
brass  wires  I  had  got  for  the  top;  they  slip  like 
magic,  and  shut  out  the  howling  sea  and  winter 
weather  with  a  beautiful  barricade  of  comfort. 

Then  the  pillows,  cushions  for  chairs  and 
sofas,  and  all  kinds  of  things  I  have  covered, 
and  every  bit  of  brass  and  metal  in  the  house 
glitters  like  gold  and  silver,  and  all  the  win 
dows  crystal  clear,  and  paint  clean  and  every 
thing  in  order.  The  curtains,  etc.,  are  a  sur 
prise  for  the  boys  when  they  come,  day  after 
to-morrow,  for  Thanksgiving.  And  now  I  am 
going  to  make  pumpkin  pies  and  mince,  and  see 
to  my  Thanksgiving  plum  pudding  this  morn 
ing.  Don't  tell  of  my  "doings,"  dearest  Annie ! 
Here  peeps  the  sun  above  the  ocean's  rim,  and  a 
golden  glory  for  a  moment  with  him.  And  here 
is  breakfast,  too,  which  Annie  Colman  brings 
with  such  glad  and  eager  service. 


128  LETTERS   OF  CELT  A   THAXTER  [1881 

Yesterday,  while  I  was  writing  the  last  words 
of  the  letter  I  sent  to  you,1  I  perceived  smoke 
in  the  air,  and  looking  up,  Annie,  the  smoke 
was  pouring  up  the  whole  length  of  the  crack 
in  the  floor  next  the  fireplace  behind  me ! ! !  I 
ran  upstairs  to  John's  room;  he  rushed  down 
half  dressed :  the  cellar  was  full  of  smoke !  In 
a  moment  all  the  half-dressed  men  were  on  the 
scene.  Wentworth  fortunately  had  not  yet  fin 
ished  his  work  at  the  barn  and  gone  home,  and 
with  lightning  speed  every  bit  of  fire  was  car 
ried  out  into  the  snow,  and  he  was  dislodging 
the  bricks  in  the  hearth,  and  the  smoke  fol 
lowed.  Then  it  was  water,  water,  and  finally, 
after  working  about  an  hour,  they  thought  it 
was  out,  and  we  sat  down  to  breakfast.  But  I 
wasn't  satisfied  and  I  kept  saying,  "I  expect 
every  minute  we  shall  break  out  into  a  light 
blaze. "  But  they  laughed  at  my  fears.  Sud 
denly  we  all  became  conscious  of  more  smoke. 
They  ran  to  the  top  of  the  house;  the  smoke 
was  coming  out  in  the  attic ! ! !  When  I  heard 
that  I  thought  we  were  gone,  and  went  quickly 
into  my  room  and  put  my  mother's  little  jewel 
treasures  in  my  pocket,  tried  to  think  what  I 
would  like  to  save  most,  and  swiftly  rushed 
back.  They  had  torn  the  whole  brickwork 
1  To  Annie  Fields.  Kittery,  November  25,  1881. 


1881]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  129 

out  by  that  time,  and  what  do  you  think! 
they  found  the  bricks  had  been  laid  on  wooden 
beams  !  !  !  and  the  beams  cut  down  like  bread 
before  the  axe,  a  mass  of  soft,  hot  charcoal! 
Just  think  of  the  man  that  built  that  chimney ! 
Well,  we  got  it  out  at  last,  and,  thank  God,  it 
was  only  smoke,  not  yet  flame,  that  had  gone 
up  through  the  partition  to  the  attic.  But  it 
was  the  narrowest  kind  of  an  escape.  All  day 
long  they  were  at  work  taking  out  the  whole  of 
the  hearth,  so  that  the  cellar  was  laid  bare  to 
view,  and  it  is  to  be  laid,  as  it  should  have 
been  at  first,  in  solid  stone.  The  mason  who 
built  it  had  the  pleasure  of  spending  his  Thanks 
giving  digging  out  his  wicked,  shiftless  work. 
It  is  the  greatest  wonder  on  -earth  that  we  are 
not  in  ashes  this  moment. 

I1  am  so  struck  with  the  flowers  along  our 
way,  though  we  rush  so  fast!  Just  now  we 
passed  a  brook  edged  with  golden  senecio,  do 
you  know  it?  growing  just  like  purple  asters, 
only  bright  gold,  in  cluster;  blue  iris  grows 
with  it.  The  meadow-rue  is  in  lovely  mist  all 
over  the  low  places.  We  pass  so  many  kinds 
of  loosestrife,  I  'm  going  to  set  them  down, 
"for  fun,"  as  Sarah  Jewett  would  say,  as  I  see 
i  To  Annie  Fields.  Monday  A.  M.  on  train. 


130  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1881 

them:  daisies,  St.  John's  wort  (blooming),  toad 
flax,  white  spiraea,  princes'  feather,  roses,  but 
tercups,  white  early  aster,  mustard,  tansy,  milk 
weed,  yarrow,  clover,  fire  weed  (rosy  purple), 
arethusa,  rudbeckia,  wild  parsley,  scarlet  wood 
lilies,  oh,  so  superb!  arrow-head  (white)  cym- 
bidium,  morning-glory,  and  golden  gorse  (only 
a  rare  glimpse  of  this),  white  elder  clusters, 
pink  meadow-sweet,  gold  mullein  spikes,  pale 
primrose,  blue-eyed  grass  (now  we  run  into 
the  rain!  Oh,  I  hope  your  hillside  has  it!), 
water  lilies  (white  and  yellow),  laurel,  thistle, 
blackberry  (still  blooming),  Gill-go-over-the- 
ground,  and  crowfoot;  going  through  a  wood,  a 
glimpse  of  white  azalea.  What  a  wilderness  of 
bloom!  And  now  we  near  Greenland,  and  it 
does  n't  seem  five  minutes  since  we  ran  out  of 
the  dark  station  at  Beverly.  And  here  is  pink 
germander !  Dear,  let  me  hear  from  you  soon. 
I  had  such  a  happy  time  with  you ! 

At  the  Shoals.  This  morning,  a  little  after  three, 
I  was  wakened  by  the  distressed  cry  of  a  sand 
piper.  I  knew  the  dear  creatures  had  a  nest 
near  the  reservoir,  towards  which  and  over  which 
one  of  my  windows  looks.  I  sprang  up  and 
looked  out.  Sure  enough,  round  the  brick  para 
pet  was  stealing  a  hideous  three-legged  cat,  who 


1882]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  131 

got  here  nobody  knows  how,  and  has  grown  wild 
and  a  terror  to  the  birds,  and  we  can't  catch  her. 
I  saw  the  sandpipers  flitting  and  piping.  Every 
thing  was  rosy  with  dawn  and  the  sea  a  mirror. 
I  threw  on  my  dressing  gown,  and,  not  stopping 
even  for  stockings,  slipped  on  my  shoes,  down 
stairs  and  out  of  the  house,  round  the  piazza, 
up  through  the  green  space  and  clustering  rose 
and  bayberry  bushes,  over  the  low  fence,  on 
to  the  broad,  low  wall  of  the  reservoir,  round 
which  I  ran  at  the  edge  of  the  still  water  to 
the  ledges  on  the  other  side,  where  the  tragedy 
was  going  on.  I  scared  away  the  cat,  and  the 
wise  sandpipers  stood  watching  on  the  highest 
part  of  the  rock  and  ceased  their  shrieks  of  ter 
ror,  and  peace  descended  upon  the  scene.  The 
sun  was  yet  some  time  below  the  horizon,  but 
such  a  rosy  world !  It  was  heavenly,  the  deli 
cate  sweet  air,  the  profound  stillness,  the  deli 
cious  color.  I  quite  forgot  I  was  nearly  fifty- 
one,  and  why  I  didn't  get  my  death  of  cold 
the  Lord  he  knows,  /don't! 

Oh,  my  dear,1  my  dear!  Never  have  I  seen 
such  roses!  Where  did  they  grow,  in  what 
garden  of  Paradise  1  Such  sumptuousness !  I 
am  like  Portia's  lover,  you  have  bereft  me  of 
1  To  Mrs.  Lang.  March  18,  1882. 


132  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1882 

all  words.  I  cannot  keep  my  eyes  away  from 
this  heavenliness,  and  as  for  thanking  you,  if 
you  '11  show  me  how,  I  shall  be  glad.  And 
your  kindness  to  my  boy !  He  is  so  moved  and 
pleased,  and  sat  up  beaming  over  Rosamond's 
photograph  last  night  till  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
see  him,  and  so  delighted  with  the  other  pic 
tures,  too ;  but  he  will  write  and  speak  for  him 
self.  I  was  out  when  your  delicious  gift  ar 
rived,  but  he  knew  exactly  what  to  do,  and  let 
each  superb  rose  softly  down  into  a  great  bowl 
of  water  till  every  cheek  touched  the  coolness, 
and  they  were  perfect  when  I  came  in  at  six 
o'clock,  and  this  morning  they  are  just  as  fresh 
as  yesterday. 

This  chilly  sheet  of  paper  seemed  so  little  to 
send  you  in  return  for  all  this  glowing  bloom 
and  perfume. 

How  l  near  the  time  comes !  I  am  so  sorry  I 
can't  stand  on  the  wharf  and  wave  to  you  and 
Sarah  to  the  last  glimmering  speck.  Strange 
to  say,  I  like  to  do  this  thing,  like  to  hold 
on  to  my  loves  as  long  as  light  will  let  me, 
till  distance  devours  them  from  me.  I  had  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Whittier;  he  says  he  is  coming 
here  in  June,  or  first  July.  But,  dear  me,  I 
i  To  Annie  Fields.  Shoals,  May  18,  1882. 


1882]  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTEK  133 

think  there  will  never  be  any  summer!  some 
thing  is  the  matter  with  the  world  and  the 
weather;  the  bitter  east  never  ceases  blowing, 
and  the  sun  won't  shine.  Our  gardens  are 
blighted  with  frost,  Julia's  and  mine.  She 
sent  to  Vick  (and  now  Vick  is  dead,  too !)  and 
got  roses  and  lilies  and  daffydowndillies.  Her 
garden  is  full,  —  but,  deary  me !  not  a  blink  of 
warmth  or  sun!  But  she's  so  happy  she 
needs  no  sun,  though  her  plants  do.  It  was 
really  bright  yesterday,  though  so  cold.  At 
night  a  wondrous  flaming  sunset,  but  the  robin 
sang  of  rain  all  day.  I  never  saw  the  coast  so 
clear  in  all  my  life.  We  saw  the  White  Moun 
tains,  Washington  and  Jefferson,  and  saw  the 
buildings  on  the  top  of  Mount  Washington 
with  a  glass!  That  is  something  I  never  ex 
pected  to  see!  We  could  hardly  believe  our 
eyes.  I  wonder  what  convulsion  of  nature  will 
transpire !  This  morning  it  is  black  and  bitter 
as  December. 

This  morning,1  at  four  o'clock,  Mr.  Thaxter 
knocked  at  my  door  and  asked  me  if  I  did  not 
wish  to  look  at  the  comet.  I  went  to  the  win 
dow,  and  such  a  supremely  beautiful  and  won 
derful  sight  met  my  eyes  that  I  thought  of  you 
A  To  Julius  Eichberg.  Kittery  Point,  October  4,  1882, 


134  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1882 

at  once,  and  your  interest  in  the  starry  heavens. 
The  east  was  a  little  red  at  the  horizon,  and 
through  the  morning  twilight,  steering  head 
long  toward  the  sun,  was  this  magnificent,  mys 
tic  object,  a  round  glowing  orb,  with  a  tremen 
dous  sweeping  tail,  taking  up  at  least  one  third 
of  the  space  of  sky  in  the  view.  The  sea  was 
glassy  calm ;  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  or 
a  whisper  of  water,  nothing  but  the  stillness 
and  this  stupendous  object.  Keally  I  can  find 
no  other  word  for  it;  it  is  immense,  and  strikes 
you  with  awe  in  spite  of  yourself,  beside  being 
so  beautiful,  so  wonderful,  it  makes  you  hold 
your  breath.  I  would  give  anything  if  you 
could  see  it,  and  I  think  you  might,  and  that 
is  why  I  write.  From  your  bedroom  window, 
somewhere  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
if  you  look  out,  I  think  it  would  be  near  the 
tall  church  tower  to  the  right,  in  the  southeast. 
It  is  steering  straight  toward  the  sun.  It  seems 
a  shame  to  miss  such  a  sight,  which  cannot 
occur  more  than  once  in  a  lifetime.  Do  try 
to  see  it !  I  never  imagined  anything  half  so 
splendid. 

I  was  so  glad  to  hear  from  you  1  once  more! 
And  so  delighted  to  have  the  extract  from  Mo- 
1  To  Mrs.  Ole  Bull.    47  State  Street,  Portsmouth. 


1884]  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  135 

hini's    letter, —  you   were  so  good   to  copy    it 
for  us. 

You  ask  about  the  picture;  it  was  taken  by 
a  Miss  Eichards,  of  Boston.  There  was  a  poor 
girl,  who  had  long  been  stemming  bravely  the 
adverse  currents  of  life,  and  who  was  just  in 
danger  of  going  under  from  protracted  ill  health 
brought  on  by  hard  work  of  supporting  her  mo 
ther  and  herself.  I  was  so  anxious  to  help 
her,  but  I  never  have  any  money.  I  was  tell 
ing  Miss  Eichards  about  her,  and  she  said,  "  If 
you  will  give  yourself  I  will  give  my  work, 
and  we  can  do  something  for  her."  I  turned 
it  over  in  my  mind  a  little,  for  I  did  n't  fancy 
lying  round  on  counters,  but  I  didn't  hesitate 
long  when  I  thought  of  this  great  need  and  the 
opportunity ;  so  it  was  done,  and  we  raised  nearly 
two  hundred  dollars  for  the  poor  thing,  and  she 
has  gone  to  the  Azores,  hoping  to  get  well  ! 
Isn't  it  beautiful  to  think  we  could?  And  the 
pictures  are  still  selling  for  her  help  and  com 
fort  at  Williams  &  Everett's  now. 

I  *  have  had  a  lovely,  hard-working  spring,  out 
of  doors  all  day  doing  the  things  I  love  best 
to  do,  and  sleeping  soundly  at  night,  and  better 
in  body  than  for  years,  for  which  I  am  most 
1  To  Anuife  Fields.  Shoals,  June  8, 1884  -•<:.' 


136  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER          [1884 

grateful.     The  dear  seeds  you  sent  I  am  eagerly 
watching  for.      I  planted  them  at  once.      The 
slugs  plague  me  sadly  still,  and  my  magnificent 
hollyhocks,  scores  and  scores  of  them,  are  seized 
by  the  hollyhock  pest,  which  came  over  from 
England  after  laying  almost  all  the  family  low 
over  there,   and  how  does  it  get  here  to  my 
island!     It  spreads  on  the  under   side  of  the 
big,  broad  leaves  a  yellow  crust,  beginning  with 
small  yellow  spots,  a  fungus,  not  an  insect,  and 
there  's  an  end  of  the  plant;  it  covers  all  of  it, 
stems  and  all,  and  devours  its  life.     I  wonder  if 
it  has  reached  you.      The  birds  and  slugs  have 
fairly  beaten  me  on  mignonette  this  year.    I  have 
planted  a  whole  solid  ounce,  and  what  the  birds 
left  the  slugs  devoured  the  moment  it  lifted  its 
head  above  the  ground.      And  I  fear  the  carna 
tion  enemy  will  cut  me  off  from  pinks.      My 
carnations  warn  me  he  has  come;  and  for  the 
poor  little  margarets,  I  know  they  won't  leave 
me  a   plant;   they  didn't  last   year.      If  they 
only  will  spare  the  rose  campion  bed !  it  grows 
with  the  same  habit  as  pinks ;  and  yesterday  I 
found  one  stalk  pierced  its  whole  length  with 
the  wriggling  worm.     It  is  detestable !     But  oh, 
my  larkspurs  and  lilies!   such  masses  of  rich, 
green,    strong    growth!      As    yet,    nothing  has 
meddled  with  them,  but  I  hardly  dare  breathe 


1884]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  137 

as  much  aloud!  Not  a  sunflower  will  birds 
and  slugs  allow  me.  I  have  planted  pints  of 
seeds,  and  not  an  aster  of  the  hundreds  of  fine 
plants  I  have  set  out  from  boxes  but  the  slugs 
have  gobbled.  To  keep  them,  I  put  a  little  pot 
upside  down  over  each,  and  often  when  I  lift 
the  pot  there  is  nothing  underneath  but  a  slug  ! 
the  whole  green  plant  vanished,  though  I  have 
ground  the  pot  deep  into  the  earth  to  prevent 
his  getting  in.  But  the  sturdy  poppies  are 
simply  glorious  in  their  growth. 

I  am  dreading  people^  after  all  this  peace,  and 
old  clothes,  and  informal  existence. 

I  wish  summer  could  go  on  all  through  thus 
peacefully. 

When  I  saw  you l  yesterday  afternoon,  and  you 
showed  me  the  bits  you  had  copied  from  the 
birthday  books,  I  thought  of  these  sonnets  of 
Shakespeare,  the  most  consummate  expressions 
of  human  feeling  in  existence,  and  thought  I 
would  copy  them  for  you;  the  more  you  read 
them,  the  more  beautiful  you  will  find  them. 
But  I  dare  say  you  know  them  all,  though  how 
few  people  do!  I  found  it  hard  to  choose 
among  them,  they  are  so  varied  and  so  wonder 
ful;  if  you  know  them,  perhaps  you  remember 
this  one :  — 

1  To  Ross  Turner.     March  12. 


138  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER 

"Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ?  " 
How  beautiful  it  is !     And  this  one :  — 

"  If  the  dull  substance  of  my  flesh  were  thought," 
And  again :  — 

"  Blessed  are  you,  whose  worthiness  gives  scope," 

And  — 

"Then  give  me  welcome,"  etc. 

Oh,  there  is  no  end  to  them  and  the  beauty  of 
them.  But  I  dare  say  you  know  them.  No 
one  yet  was  ever  known  to  tire  of  them,  how 
ever,  any  more  than  one  can  tire  of  nature. 

Celia  Thaxter's  life  was  one  in  which  the 
soul's  development  may  truly  be  said  to  have 
been  made  evident.  The  eagerness  with 
which  she  called  others  to  her  side,  in  mo 
ments  of  exceptional  experience,  was  peculiar 
to  herself.  She  did  not  need  to  study  the 
Scripture  words,  that  no  man  liveth  to  him 
self  and  no  man  dieth  to  himself;  her  bless 
ings  were  her  neighbors'  blessings,  and  her 
sorrows  became  a  source  of  light  to  others, 
as  well  as  to  her  own  heart. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  new  awakening  of  her 
spirit  to  a  conscious  sense  of  its  own  inde 
pendent,  disengaged  existence  came  while  lis 
tening  to  the  music  of  Beethoven.  Day  after 
day  Mr.  Paine  delighted  to  play  for  her  and 
was  eager  to  forerun  her  wish  to  hear.  During 


LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  139 

the  long  summer  mornings  he  would  repeat 
her  favorite  sonatas  (109  and  110),  and  her 
expressions  of  gratitude  to  him  and  to  Mr. 
Eichberg  are  more  touching  than  ever  before. 
Up  to  this  moment  of  her  life  she  seems  to 
have  considered  herself  a  striving,  struggling, 
sorrowing,  and  oftentimes  rebellious,  atom; 
one  knowing  only  its  own  fatuousness  and 
its  own  power  of  suffering:  deeper,  however, 
hidden  in  a  half  -  recognized  consciousness, 
she  was  always  able  to  find  in  the  heart  of 
nature  the  same  response  which  she  had  felt 
as  a  little  child ;  but  her  half-awakened  self 
was  a  mist-driven  creature  longing  for  the 
light.  This  light  she  found  in  listening  to 
Beethoven,  and  from  that  moment  music  was 
more  than  ever  a  great  factor  in  her  exist 
ence. 

Soon  after  this  awakening  to  music,  per 
haps  in  the  following  year,  the  first  intima 
tions  of  a  possible  communication  between 
the  spirits  of  this  world  and  those  in  the 
world  of  the  unseen  were  aroused  in  her. 
The  intense  excitement  she  experienced  made 
it  impossible  to  distinguish  between  things 
true  and  false ;  indeed,  she  seemed  to  make 
no  effort,  but  was  exalted  by  every  breath 
which  came  to  her.  At  last  she  was  rudely 


140  LETTERS   OF  CELT  A  THAXTER  [1884 

awakened  to  the  untruth  of  some  of  the  "  me 
diums.  "  Nevertheless  she  clung  to  her  faith 
in  the  possibility  of  communication  with  the 
unseen,  and  found  great  comfort  in  it.  Later, 
theosophy  attracted  her,  especially  as  taught 
by  Mohini.  For  the  first  time  the  world  of 
the  Orient  was  opened,  and  the  vastness  of 
this  rolling  sphere,  as  seen  by  the  light  of 
Eastern  religion,  absorbed  her  imagination. 
She  saw  the  Divine  life  pouring  light  upon 
the  children  of  men  in  the  far  dawn  of  time 
when  the  western  world  was  in  a  sense  non 
existent.  The  truth  came  to  her  in  a  gar 
ment  of  living  poetry  which  Mohini  inter 
preted.  He  also  urged  the  necessity  of  put 
ting  aside  the  "manifestations  of  spirits," 
the  seeking  of  which  he  considered  dangerous 
folly.  He  showed  how  the  older  religion 
was  allied  to  the  teaching  of  Christ,  and 
gave  her  a  copy  of  the  New  Testament  for 
her  study  and  her  guide.  From  that  mo 
ment  her  relation  to  the  things  of  this  world 
became  quite  changed.  In  the  letters  that 
follow  we  shall  discern  a  spirit  different  and 
calmer,  —  the  spirit  of  one  who  has  found  a 
key  into  the  central  chamber  we  call  Peace. 
All1  my  life  I  have  wondered  at  myself,  of 
i  To  John  G.  Whittier. 


1884]  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  141 

what  my  pen  wrote  of  itself  of  piety  and  moral 
feeling.  Now  I  thank  God  that  in  me  lay  the 
religious  sense  ready  for  awakening,  the  spir 
itual  perception,  the  capacity  to  perceive  the 
truth  in  the  Scriptures,  "  They  take  up  a  man 
where  he  is,  and  leave  him  on  a  higher  plane, 
every  time  he  studies  them."  "As  soon  as  one 
knows  the  truth,  then  nothing  else  is  necessary. 
Totally  against  all  the  world  can  bring,  the 
man  says,  I  stand  upon  the  truth.  How  much 
it  takes  away  from  the  load  of  trouble!  Like 
water  under  the  keel  of  a  ship  it  (trouble) 
comes  and  goes;  we  do  not  mind  it  more. 
Truth  gives  this  power.  This  is  the  test  of 
truth  within  a  man."  So,  dear  friend,  I  am 
become  a  most  humble  and  devoted  follower  of 
Christ,  our  Christ,  for  all  races  have  their  own 
Christs  to  save  and  help  them,  one  being  es 
pecially  sent  for  us,  "to  call  sinners  to  repent 
ance  and  not  the  righteous."  I  understand  it 
all  now,  and  feel  as  if  all  my  life  I  had  been 
looking  through  a  window  black  with  smoke; 
suddenly  it  is  cleared,  and  I  see  a  dazzling  pros 
pect,  a  glorious  hope !  There  are  two  elements 
which  Mohini  brings  which  make  clear  the 
scheme  of  things :  one  is  the  law  of  incarnation, 
the  rebirths  upon  this  earth,  in  which  all  the 
Eastern  nations  believe  as  a  matter  of  course, 


142  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1885 

and  to  which  our  Christ  refers  in  one  or  two  of 
the  gospels ;  and  the  other,  the  law  of  cause  and 
effect,  called  Karma,  the  results  of  lives  in  the 
past.  When  salvation  is  spoken  of,  it  always 
means  the  being  saved  from  further  earthly 
lives,  and  of  reaching  God  and  the  supreme  of 
joy,  the  continual  wheel  of  rebirth  and  pain 
and  death  being  the  hell,  the  fire  of  passions 
that  burns  forever,  the  worm  of  desires  that 
never  die.  ...  I  saw  lovely  Rachel  Rowland 
at  the  women's  prison,  where  I  went  to  read  to 
three  hundred  convicts.  We  spoke  of  you,  and 
she  asked  me,  when  I  should  write,  to  remember 
her  to  you.  She  put  on  my  head  one  of  the 
Friends'  caps,  a  real  one,  which  she  took  off  her 
own  head,  the  loveliest  thing !  I  wish  I  could 
wear  it  always. 

How  fares  it  with  you  ? l  When  I  first  heard 
of  your  pain,  I  thought  to  write  to  you  at  once, 
but  I  reflected  and  said  to  myself,  "  Better  wait 
a  little  till  the  sore  heart  can  bear  a  word  or 
touch,"  for  I  think  at  first  one  longs  to  be  left 
in  peace :  all  words,  however  kind,  are  so  futile ; 
they  cannot  alter  the  tremendous  fact  which 
overwhelms  us. 

To  me,  death  is  no  longer  dreadful;  for  me  it 
1  To  Feroline  W.  Fox.    Shoals,  June  5,  1885. 


1885]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  143 

has  lost  all  its  terrors ;  it  is  only  a  brief  pain 
of  separation  from  our  beloved;  we  miss  them, 
that   is   all,    but    oh    how   hard    it   is   to   miss 
them !     I  know  it  all.      It  has  grown  to  be  no 
more  to  me  than  when  my  friend  crosses  the 
ocean  to  the   other   hemisphere.      I   miss   him 
dreadfully,    the  days  seem  long  till  the  sweet 
time  when  I  shall  again  see  him;  but  I  know 
he  is  there,  and  never  forgets  me  any  more  than 
I  forget  him,   and  that  presently  I  shall  join 
him,  —  the  longest  time  is  brief :  and  it  is  said 
in   that   beautiful   new   life   our  darlings   have 
begun,   there  is  no  time,  the  word  means  no 
thing  to  them  any  longer.      I  went  to  a  wed 
ding  the  other  day,   the  wedding  of  my  dear 
Ignatius  Grossman  with  Edwina  Booth.      Such 
radiant  happiness  I  have  never  seen.     I  rejoiced 
with  them,  with  the  dear  fellow  who  was  like 
a  son  to  me.      A  few  days  later  I  went  to  the 
funeral  of  a  dear  friend,   Mr.   Kobert  Darrah. 
That  funeral  gave  me  more  happiness  than  the 
wedding    had    done.      I    looked    down    at    the 
cloak  of  a  body  he  had  thrown  off,  the  well- 
used  garment  he  had  worn  so  many  years,  and 
which  had  served  him  well,  but  which  he  no 
longer  needed,    and   my  heart  was   light  with 
joy.      I  was  so  fond  of  him  I  could  only  rejoice 
with  my  whole  soul  for  him;  for  I  knew  he 


144  LETTERS  OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1885 

was  safe  with  his  dear  ones,  unfettered,  un- 
trammeled,  happy,  and  that  he  could  not  forget 
us,  and  would  be  sure  to  be  ready  with  welcome 
when  we  escape  in  our  turn. 

Pardon  me,  dear  friend,  if  I  weary  you  with 
this  talk,  but  my  heart  is  so  full  of  it,  death 
seems  such  a  different  thing  from  what  it  used, 
such  joy,  such  comfort,  it  is  so  sweet  to  look 
forward  to;  and  for  those  who  have  gone  on  I 
have  only  rejoicing,  and  the  consciousness  of 
their  well-being  makes  it  easier  for  me  to  bear 
the  loneliness  without  them.  I  know  'tis  so 
brief  a  time  before  my  turn  comes,  and  I  shall 
have  all  I  love.  I  am  sure  you  feel  it,  too,  do 
you  not?  Send  me  a  word  and  tell  me  how 
you  are.  I  have  been  so  sorry  to  think  how 
lonely  you  must  be ;  the  separation,  even  though 
we  know  how  brief  it  is  to  be,  is  so  hard  while 
it  lasts.  But  it  is  only  to  have  patience  a  little 
longer,  and  the  dear  hand  of  your  child  clasps 
yours,  and  draws  you  away  from  weariness, 
pain,  and  perplexity  into  light  and  warmth  and 
joy,  and  the  beginning  of  a  new  and  beautiful 
existence  where  all  your  powers  are  renewed  and 
you  begin  afresh  to  live  with  those  you  love. 
Ah,  how  divine  it  is  to  think  of!  It  is  no 
dream,  no  fancy.  I  do  not  think  it,  I  KNOW 
it  is  true. 


1886]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  145 

God  bless  you,  my  dear  friend.  I  wish  I 
could  comfort  you,  could  give  you  the  strength 
of  my  delight  in  all  this,  of  my  content  and 
assurance  that  all  is  well.  I  wish  I  could  make 
your  brief  loss  less  hard  to  bear.  I  think  of 
you  much  and  often. 

I1  crept  out  to  the  talk  about  the  "Song  of 
Songs  "  yesterday  and  saw  Mohini,  like  a  keen 
ray  from  the  central  sun,  and  heard  his  words 
of  fire  that  burns  not  but  saves,  —  fire  that  heats 
not,  but  lights  the  mind.  Do  you  remember 
what  Schiller  said  to  the  unknown  author  of  the 
"  Bhagavat  Gita  "  on  first  reading  the  poem  ?  — 
"Thee  first,  most  holy  prophet,  interpreter 
of  the  Deity,  by  whatever  name  thou  wast 
called  among  mortals,  the  author  of  this  poem, 
by  whose  oracles  the  mind  is  rapt  with  ineffa 
ble  delight  to  doctrines  lofty,  eternal,  and  di 
vine,  —  thee  first,  I  say,  I  hail,  and  shall  always 
worship  at  thy  feet." 

I  cannot  express  to  you2  my  distress  at  the 
destruction  of  the  birds.  You  know  how  I 
love  them;  every  other  poem  I  have  written 

1  To  Annie  Fields.    Boston. 

2  To  Feroline  W.  Fox.    Hotel  Clifford,  Cortes  Street, 
Boston,  April  1, 1886 


146  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1886 

has  some  bird  for  its  subject,  and  I  look  at 
the  ghastly  horror  of  women's  headgear  with 
absolute  suffering.  I  remonstrate  with  every 
wearer  of  birds.  I  never  lose  an  opportunity 
of  doing  this  whenever  and  wherever  it  occurs. 
People  don't  think  what  they  are  doing;  they 
do  not  know  what  it  involves.  If  they  only  can 
be  made  to  see  it  we  shall  gain  our  point.  No 
woman  worthy  of  the  name  would  wish  to  be 
instrumental  in  destroying  the  dear,  beautiful 
creatures;  and  for  such  idle  folly!  To  deck 
their  heads  like  squaws,  who  are  supposed  to 
know  no  better,  when  a  ribbon  or  a  flower 
would  serve  their  purpose  just  as  well,  and  not 
involve  this  fearful  sacrifice!  Believe  me,  I, 
too,  am  engaged  heart  and  soul  in  trying  to  save 
our  dear  birds.  I  don't  care  to  head  a  league, 
because  I  think  I  can  do  just  as  much  good  in 
other  ways,  and  I  hate  to  drag  myself  into  pub 
lic  vices  any  more  than  I  can  possibly  help. 
Have  you  not  noticed  how  carefully  I  keep  out 
of  publicity?  But  be  sure  I  shall  do  every 
thing  in  my  power  in  other  ways,  quite  as 
much  as  I  could  in  the  way  you  suggest.  I 
will  join  this  society  whose  circular  you  send 
me,  and  continue  to  work  strongly,  if  quietly, 
in  the  cause.  No  one  can  have  it  more  at 
heart  than  I. 


1887]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  147 

MY  DEAR  LITTLE  MARGARET:1  —  The  story 
of  Eupert  is  quite  true,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  It 
all  happened  in  our  house  when  we  lived  in 
Newton.  We  felt  so  sorry  to  have  the  poor, 
pretty  little  canary  killed  by  that  wild  butcher 
bird!  I  have  heard  of  a  good  many  such  cases; 
the  butcher-birds  come  into  the  houses  wher 
ever  they  can  find  a  canary,  if  they  can  get  a 
chance. 

Almost  all  the  stories  in  the  book  are  true, 
my  dear  little  Margaret. 

1 2  hear  the  rote  of  the  sea  distinctly  as  I  sit 
here  in  the  quiet  room  among  the  flowers,  with 
only  Charlotte  Dana,  and  outside  the  doctor  and 
the  younger  Charlotte  quietly  conversing.  All 
the  world  is  looking  at  the  surf  in  "the  great 
moonlight,  light  as  any  clay."  Evidently  there 
has  been  a  storm  at  sea,  for  the  breakers  are 
immense. 

News  comes  to-night  from  John,  my  John; 
—  a  sad  accident  in  Braveboat  Harbor  this 
morning.  Three  boys  were  drowned,  but  two 
managed  to  get  ashore.  There  were  five  in  the 
boat,  which  capsized  in  the  inlet.  I  long  to 

1  To   Margaret  I.  Bowditch.    Hotel  Clifford,  March  31, 
1887. 

2  To  Rose  Lamb.    September  1, 1887. 


148  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1887 

hear  from  John  and  Gertrude  about  it.  It 
must  have  been  a  fearful  shock  to  them. 

The  Turners  are  to  go  to-morrow,  but  Arthur 
Whiting  stays  till  Saturday.  His  gift  is  won 
derful.  Dear  Rose,  I  miss  you  so!  The  day 
seems  strangely  empty  without  you. 

It 1  is  so  sweet  and  sunny  and  serene  and  pro 
foundly  silent  this  beautiful  day !  There  is  abso 
lute  silence;  not  a  human  sound,  nor  whisper 
of  wave  or  wind,  nor  twitter  of  bird,  nor  chirp 
of  insect ;  and  the  sea  is  a  vast,  blue,  quiet  floor 
under  the  floods  of  sunlight,  not  a  cloud  in  all 
the  sky.  I  wish  you  were  here. 

I  was  so  pleased  to  get  your 2  nice  long  letter 
and  hear  the  flowers  arrived  safely,  and  Anne 
and  all  were  pleased  with  them!  There  is 
plenty  of  time  for  writing  now,  and  this  only 
the  seventh  letter  I  have  written  here  since 
supper,  sitting  by  the  fire  all  alone  in  the  Bow- 
ditch  parlor,  Karl  out  at  his  photography,  and 
not  a  mouse  in  the  house ;  only  myself !  And 
the  fire  is  made  of  bits  of  the  west  end  of  my 
room,  the  floor  of  which  has  walked  off  over 
the  grass  towards  the  water  in  the  most  amazing 

1  To  Rose  Lamb.    September  11,  1887. 

2  To  Ellen  Robbing.    Shoals,  September  23,  1887. 


1888]  LETTERS   OF   CELT  A   THAXTER  149 

fashion!  Ruth  and  I  promenaded  there  this 
afternoon  with  great  delight  and  satisfaction,  it 
brought  us  so  near  the  sea.  And  the  piazza  will 
go  still  further,  and  Cedric  is  going  to  make 
another  garden  in  the  green  hollow  before  his 
house,  and  my  piazza  will  look  right  down  into 
it  and  get  its  whiffs  of  fragrance.  Such  a  big 
room,  Ellen!  you'll  have  a  place  to  paint  in 
with  some  comfort. 

I  never  do  allow  myself  to  plan,  but  when 
it 's  a  plan  that 's  got  to  be  built  one  has  to 
plan  or  it  won't  get  done;  but  I  mustn't  think 
too  much  about  it.  I  have  n't  been  so  inter 
ested  in  any  mundane  affairs  for  many  a  long 
year!  The  wind  makes  such  a  noise  in  the 
empty,  open,  little,  or  rather  big,  new,  old 
parlor,  that  you  'd  think  all  the  ghosts  of  all 
the  summer  visitors  were  dancing  out  there, 
and  never  a  soul  in  the  house  is  there  but  poor 
me! 

We l  only  arrived  here  yesterday,  being  weather 
bound  in  Portsmouth  from  Monday  till  Satur 
day.  Sunday  morning  was  still  and  gray  and 
silvery  calm.  We  had  a  lovely  voyage  across, 
and  the  island  looked  like  a  little  city  as  we 
approached.  I  'm  so  happy  to  be  here !  To-day 
1  To  Rose  Lamb.  Shoals,  March  12,  1888. 


150  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1888 

it  is  storming  fiercely,  snowing  and  raging,  and 
the  sea  piling  mountains  high. 

13th,  Wednesday.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  the  ocean  to-day !  Never  in  your  wildest 
dreams  could  you  imagine  it.  The  sea  came 
in  at  Broad  Cove,  east,  and  washed  everything 
before  it,  and  went  through  under  the  piazza 
between  the  music  and  main  houses  and  out 
to  the  other  cove,  Babb's  Cove,  west,  on  the 
other  side.  The  waves  rose  in  great,  toppling, 
green  walls  of  water.  I  never  saw  them  more 
tremendous.  It  has  snowed  for  twenty-four 
hours;  the  island  is  white.  Yet  I  saw  a  robin 
to-day,  and  we  fed  a  flock  of  song  sparrows  at 
the  door.  I  am  so  delighted  to  be  here !  We 
keep  perfectly  comfortable  and  so  busy  every 
moment.  There  is  so  much  to  be  done.  I 
have  put  more  than  a  dozen  boxes  of  seeds  to 
start  in  my  big  window,  pansies  and  cobsea  and 
asters  and  lots  of  things.  It  is  such  delight  to 
water  and  watch  and  hope  for  them.  Karl  and 
I  are  sitting  before  a  big  open  coal  fire  in  my 
mother's  chamber.  Now  I  am  going  to  read 
aloud  (from  a  new  book  Mr.  Garrison  sent 
us,  on  "Reincarnation  ").  .  .  .  You  must  get 
this  book  on  "Reincarnation,"  published  by 
Houghton  &  Mifflin,  written  by  E.  D.  Walker. 
Do  send  for  it  at  once,  any  bookstore. 


1888]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  151 

Friday.  It  cleared  yesterday  for  the  first 
time  since  we  came,  and  the  sun  shone  so  beau 
tifully  on  the  snow-covered  island,  and  the  sea 
the  divinest  blue.  This  morning  they  are 
working  hard  to  get  the  storm-toppled  rocks 
out  from  the  Pinafore's  path,  so  she  can  go  to 
Portsmouth  this  afternoon. 

Such 1  a  splendid  lecture  as  Mr.  Fiske  gave  us ! 
I  have  never  heard  anything  so  fine  and  noble 
and  dignified  and  interesting.  It  was  the  Ben 
edict  Arnold.  And  ever  since  he  came  we  have 
had  such  good  times,  music  morning,  noon,  and 
night.  And  he  has  told  fascinating  stories. 
Yesterday  morning  Mr.  Mason  played,  like  one 
inspired,  for  two  hours.  I  declare  I  never  im 
agined  he  could  play  so,  and  every  minute  I 
wished  for  you.  Then  all  the  evening  was  full 
of  music,  sonata  after  sonata.  Paine  played 
grandly,  and  then  we  sat  up  till  twelve,  Mr. 
Fiske  telling  stories.  He  sang,  too,  finely, 
'*  The  Two  Grenadiers  "  and  other  things. 

Monday  noon.  Mr.  Mason  is  playing  bal 
lades  and  nocturnes  of  Chopin.  The  day  is 
divine;  the  sea  light  blue  and  sparkling,  beau 
tiful  surf  breaking  in  the  sunshine,  the  white 
sails  flitting  and  the  flowers  blowing  for  dear 
1  To  Rose  Lamb.  July  29, 1888. 


152  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1888 

life,  —  such  glories  of  gold  and  scarlet,  pink, 
white,  purple  flame !  How  we  miss  you  every 
hour!  Mason  is  playing  the  funeral  march  of 
Chopin;  it  sounds  strange  in  all  this  wealth  of 
life  and  color. 

I  have  come  over  from  the  big  house  (where  I 
live  now),  this  sweet  morning,  to  sit  on  my 
piazza  in  the  sun  and  talk  to  you.1  For  now  I 
have  plenty  of  time  for  everything.  There  is 
not  a  soul  on  the  island  except  ourselves  and 
the  workmen,  who  are  busy  on  the  cottages, 
happily  out  of  sight  from  here,  whose  saws  and 
hammers  sound  afar  off.  I  am  sitting  in  the 
corner  of  the  piazza  facing  the  west,  and  the  pale- 
blue  sea  is  like  a  level  floor  before  me,  calm  as 
the  loveliest  turquoise  color.  There  are  sails 
here  and  there,  white  in  the  sunshine,  for  the 
mackerel- fishing  is  going  on,  as  it  always  does 
in  the  early  autumn.  There  is  the  softest, 
faintest  lilac-gray  haze  over  the  line  of  coast; 
the  thin  white  clouds  are  in  long  level  lines,  so 
peaceful,  so  motionless!  Every  now  and  then 
a  sleepy  breaker  rolls  and  whispers  in  foam  on 
the  rocks  just  before  me,  with  a  sound  like  a 
shell  when  you  put  it  to  your  ear.  Many, 
many  little  birds  chirp  and  twitter  about  and 
l  To  Rose  Lamb.  Shoals,  September  25, 1888. 


1888]          LETTERS   OF   CELT  A  THAXTER  153 

rustle  in  and  out  among  the  vines,  song  spar 
rows,  nuthatches,  finches.  Some  devour  the 
insects,  the  pretty  nuthatch,  for  instance,  and 
others  eat  the  seeds  of  the  Japanese  hop  vine. 
They  are  all  so  busy,  so  pretty,  so  tame  and 
dear !  Yesterday,  as  I  was  going  down  the  long 
piazza,  Cedric  called  out  in  surprise  as  he  came 
toward  me;  a  nuthatch  was  sitting  on  my 
shoulder  as  I  walked,  quite  at  his  ease,  and  I 
knew  nothing  about  it ! 

Just  now  a  big  hawk  swept  down  and  past 
the  railing,  so  near  I  could  hear  the  whir  of 
his  wings.  I  do  love  to  have  the  birds  so 
tame,  and  I  am  really  grateful  to  Heaven  there 
is  no  one  here  to  shoot  hawk  or  curlew,  wild 
pigeon  or  plover,  or  lovely  long-legged  heron, 
for  they  all  come  here  in  the  autumn,  and  many 
another  delightful  feathered  creature  beside. 
Cedric  is  drawing  his  nets  out  in  front,  mack 
erel  nets  and  lobster  traps.  I  see  him  taking 
out  lots  of  fish.  High  up  above  him  in  the 
blue  a  little  thin  white  moon  is  softly  out 
lined,  a  three-quarters  moon;  and  though  I 
know  she  is  sinking  towards  the  horizon,  she 
does  not  seem  to  have  moved  since  I  began  to 
watch  her,  all  is  so  still,  no  air  to  stir  a  waft 
of  vapor  anywhere. 

The  crickets  make  such  a  warm,   reposeful 


154  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1888 

simmering  in  the  thick  grass!  Over  Julia's 
garden  fence  the  big  white  and  golden  ingle 
dahlias  shine  like  stars,  and  masses  of  scarlet 
ones  are  glowing  like  the  robes  of  kings. 

The  artist  you  left  behind  yon  was  so  home 
sick!  I  was  thankful  to  have  her  get  away 
last  Thursday;  the  idea  that  she  could  not  go 
nearly  drove  her  wild,  poor  thing.  Oh,  the 
hawk  has  come  back,  and  has  perched  on  the 
corner  of  Julia's  fence;  he  holds  up  his  head 
like  a  falcon,  his  back  shimmers  with  metallic 
lustre,  and  there  are  bars  of  black  across  his 
long  tail.  This  is  most  exciting!  Instantly 
every  little  bird  is  mute;  they  have  all  hidden, 
and  are  quite  dumb  with  fear.  Now,  is  n't  it 
strange  that  among  their  own  kind  they  should 
have  an  enemy  so  fearful  and  so  fell?  Worse 
than  the  guns  of  human  folk,  more  accurate, 
more  deadly  in  aim,  more  cruel.  No;  on  the 
whole  I  'm  afraid  my  hospitality  does  not  ex 
tend  to  the  hawk,  after  all.  I  wish  he  would 
take  wing  for  the  continent  and  leave  us  alone, 
the  birds  and  me. 

I l  write  this  little  word  just  to  say  I  am  "  a 

truly"  grandmother   at   last,   and   Roland  sent 

me    a   tiny   satin    lock   of  little   Charles  Eliot 

1  To  Annie  Fields.    Shoals,  November  10,  1888. 


1888]  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  155 

Thaxter's  hair  in  his  last  letter,  for  he  has 
named  his  boy  after  his  best  friend.  I  trust 
all  is  going  well,  as  it  was  a  week  ago,  with 
mother  and  child,  but  these  long  waits  of  a 
week  between  mails  are  most  trying  at  this 
anxious  time 

Dear,  did  you  think  I  was  extravagant  in 
saying  I  liked  your  poem  better  than  anything 
you  ever  did?  Because  it  just  fitted  my  par 
ticular  idiosyncrasies,  you  know! 

I  only  wish  you  l  could  see  this  quaintest,  cozi 
est,  sunniest  little  nook  that  ever  was!  This 
long  room  where  I  sit,  the  parlor,  has  four 
sunny  windows  all  bowery  with  palms  and 
ferns  and  blossoming  things,  the  deep  window- 
seats  full,  and  hanging  pots  in  clouds  of  blue 
and  white  and  pink  and  yellow  bloom,  and 
hyacinths  all  ready  to  flower,  and  crocuses  in 
boxes  pushing  up  their  gold  and  purple  bubbles, 
and  flower-stands  beside  with  pinks  and  wall 
flowers  and  all  sorts  of  dear  things,  all  flourish 
ing,  growing,  and  blooming. 

The  window  in  the  corner  looks  down  the 
street  to  the  water  of  the  river;  the  corner  is 
round  and  picturesque.  I  found  a  Lowell  car- 

i  To  Adaline  Hepworth.    47  State  Street,  Portsmouth, 
December  7, 1888. 


156  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1888 

pet  just  the  color  of  the  moss  in  the  woods  (a 
little  greener  than  the  piano  cloth),  and  every 
thing  blends  and  is  harmonious. 

We 1  have  been  settled  here  in  this  sunny  cor 
ner,  Karl  and  I,  since  the  middle  of  November, 
and  I  find  it  charming.  I  have  nine  rooms, 
and  the  sun  does  pour  in  delightfully.  ...  1 
have  on  this  floor  this  lovely  parlor  and  my 
bedroom  next  it,  a  little  dining-room,  and  the 
coziest  kitchen,  and  bathroom,  and  a  nice  big 
hall,  which  is  furnished  and  hung  with  pictures 
and  pleasant  as  any  room,  all  on  one  floor. 
Then  upstairs  there's  a  big  place  for  drying 
clothes,  a  carpenter's  "shop"  for  Karl,  nice 
room  for  the  girl,  a  large  room  for  Oscar,  the 
dearest,  prettiest  little  spare  chamber,  a  cham 
ber  for  Karl,  and  a  good  room  for  his  photo, 
graphy.  The  house  is  so  old  and  built  so 
thoroughly  that  it  is  very  warm  and  comfort 
able.  No  one  has  occupied  it  before  to  live 
in ;  the  lower  part  was  a  shop,  and  the  upper 
a  great  hall,  the  armory  of  the  Rockingham 
Guards;  and  all  the  place  has  been  made  just 
to  suit  me,  and  it  is  so  pretty  and  comfortable 
I  am  perfectly  thankful  to  have  it.  I  am  a 

i  To  M.  L.  Padelford.    47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,  Decem 
ber  12,  1888. 


1889]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  157 

great  deal  better,  and  getting  well  fast  under  a 
treatment  I  discovered  and  apply  myself.  No 
doctors,  thank  you. 

I  must  tell  you *  something.  Just  now  I  was 
lying  in  my  comfortable  sofa  corner  after  din 
ner,  "having  a  small  nap.  Suddenly  I  felt  and 
heard  a  queer  fluttering  at  my  ear  which  waked 
me  so  that  I  sprang  up,  putting  my  hand  to 
my  head,  wide  awake,  and,  lo!  away  fluttered 
a  lovely  pale-gold-colored  butterfly  with  dark 
spots  on  his  wings,  and  alighted  on  a  basket  of 
envelopes  on  my  writing  desk.  I  told  Karl  to 
slip  out  the  envelope  on  which  he  stood,  a  large 
one,  and  hold  him  near  a  spike  of  pale-blue 
hyacinth  flowers  which  have  just  blossomed  for 
me  in  a  glass.  The  pretty  creature  left  the 
paper  for  the  flowers  and  there  he  stands,  open 
ing  and  shutting  his  beautiful  yellow  fans,  as  if  it 
were  August  and  he  in  the  middle  of  my  garden. 
Where  did  he  come  from?  I  call  it  a  marvel. 

We  2  came  here  day  before  yesterday ;  the  little 
Pinafore  looked  dressed  for  a  festival,  with  all 
the  plants  and  flowers  on  the  hurricane  deck. 
We  came  safely  and  pleasantly,  and  everything 

1  To  Annie  Fields.    February  5, 1889. 

2  To  Annie  Fields.    Shoals,  April  8, 1889. 


158  LETTERS   OF   CELT  A   THAXTER  [1889 

looked  so  pleasant  and  delightful  when  we  got 
here.  The  good  Theodine  had  everything 
bright  and  shining  with  a  real  Norwegian 
shine,  and  the  plants  in  the  ten  sunny  windows 
made  a  perfect  bower  of  greenery  and  bloom. 
I  have  not  seen  them  so  beautiful  since  my 
dear  mother  left  them.  Ah,  it  is  so  pleasant 
to  creep  into  that  dear  mother's  comfortable 
bed,  and  it  is  so  charming  to  be  here!  I  love 
it  so!  The  song  sparrows  sing  and  sing  so 
sweetly,  and  the  great  lulling  sound  of  the  ocean 
is  delicious  to  my  ears. 

I  am  pretty  well,  but  a  little  uncertain  feel 
ing  stays  by  me.  I  am  not  sure  of  myself  from 
hour  to  hour,  but  I  shall  hope  for  the  best. 

You l  cannot  know  what  a  joy  your  dear  letter 
is  to  me.  I  have  read  it  again  and  again. 
Ah,  my  dear  friend,  you  speak  so  kindly? 
But  who  in  our  time  has  given  so  much 
strength  and  refreshment  as  you  have  done, 
not  only  to  your  friends  and  your  country,  but 
to  all  the  world,  which  has  been  bettered  by 
your  living  in  it? 

Yes,  I  had  a  quiet,  lovely  winter  in  Ports 
mouth.      I   did   more   writing   than  for   years, 
and  was  well  and  content  until  about  three  weeks 
i  To  John  G.  Whittier.    Shoals,  April  11,  1889. 


1889]  LETTERS   OF   CELT  A   THAXTER  159 

ago,  when  I  was  suddenly  very  ill,  as  I  have 
been  twice  before,  for  no  reason  that  anybody 
appears  able  to  find  out,  except  "overwork" 
the  doctors  say,  in  years  past.  I  say  as  little 
about  it  as  possible. 

I  do  not  mind  the  thought  of  death,  it  means 
only  fuller  life,  but  there  is  a  pang  in  the 
thought  of  leaving  Karl.  But  I  know  the 
heavenly  Father  provides  for  all.  It  may  be 
I  shall  get  quite  well  and  strong  again  in  this 
beautiful  air.  I  hope  so,  but  whatever  befalls, 
I  am  ready  and  know  that  all  is  for  best. 

Never  did  the  island  look  so  lovely  in  the 
early  spring  since  I  was  a  little  child  playing 
on  the  rocks  at  White  Island.  Oh  the  deli 
cious  dawns  and  crimson  sunsets,  the  calm  blue 
sea,  the  tender  sky,  the  chorus  of  the  birds! 
It  all  makes  me  so  happy !  Sometimes  I  won 
der  if  it  is  wise  or  well  to  love  any  spot  on  this 
old  earth  as  intensely  as  I  do  this!  I  am 
wrapped  up  in  measureless  content  as  I  sit  on 
the  steps  in  the  sun  in  my  little  garden,  where 
the  freshly  turned  earth  is  odorous  of  the 
spring.  How  I  hope  you  can  come  to  us  this 
summer!  Every  year  I  plant  the  garden,  for 
your  dear  eyes,  with  yellow  flowers.  I  never 
forget  those  lovely  summers  long  ago  when  you 
came  and  loved  my  flowers. 


160  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  [1889 

I  am  going  to  send  you  with  this  a  little 
copy  of  an  old  picture  of  Karl  and  myself  when 
we  were  babes  together,  he  one  year  old,  I 
eighteen. 

Thank  you  for  the  beautiful  poem  you  en 
closed.  It  is  most  lovely.  You  ask  what  I 
have  been  writing?  A  great  deal,  for  me.  I 
wish  I  had  sent  you  the  April  "St.  Nicholas," 
for  in  it  is  a  version  I  made  of  Tolstoi's  "  Where 
love  is  there  is  God  also."  I  had  such  rever 
ence  for  the  great  author's  work  I  hardly  dared 
touch  it,  but  I  did  it  with  the  greatest  love.  I 
called  it  "The  Heavenly  Guest."  Dear  Sarah 
Jewett  has  a  sweet  story  begun  in  the  April 
number,  and  my  poem  follows. 

Ever  with  deep,  gentle,  grateful  love, 

Your  C.  T. 

It1  is  between  four  and  five  in  the  morning, 
and  so  still  I  can  hear  the  fog-horn  at  Whale 's- 
back  Lighthouse,  for  a  light  mist  lies  over  the 
sea;  and  the  birds!  oh  the  birds,  how  they 
sing,  the  song  sparrows!  Such  a  sound  of 
pure  happiness  is  hardly  found  in  all  nature. 
There  is  a  girl  here  who  begged  to  be  taken 
in  for  a  week  or  two,  having  overworked  her 
self  into  great  exhaustion;  she  takes  care  of 
1  To  Annie  Fields.  April  20, 1889. 


1889]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  161 

herself  pretty  much,  and  stays  on  the  rocks  all 
day,  as  near  as  she  can  get  to  the  sea,  in  a  bliss 
ful  state  of  mind.  She  calls  the  sparrows 
"island  bobolinks,"  for  never  anywhere  has 
she  heard  them  so  sing  before.  That  is  what 
I  always  say ;  nowhere  else  do  you  hear  them 
so  rapturously  warble. 

I J  did  not  forget  that  I  promised  to  write  about 
the  birds  when  I  reached  this  place,  but  I  have 
been  so  confounded  at  my  own  ignorance  that  I 
really  haven't  had  a  word  to  say!  The  kill- 
deer  stayed  till  about  March  1st;  but  we  did 
not  get  here  till  April,  so  I  missed  seeing  them. 
There  are  so  many  birds  that  visit  us,  not  to 
stay,  for  there  are  no  trees  in  which  to  build, 
and  I  know  so  few  by  name ! 

The  commonest  birds, — song  sparrows,  black 
birds,  robins,  sandpipers,  loons,  gulls,  etc.,  all 
the  swallows,  barn,  chimney,  and  the  sapphire 
blue  and  white  breasted  martins,  the  nuthatch, 
kingfisher,  kingbird,  etc. ,  —  all  these  I  know, 
but  there  are  so  many  more !  I  wish  you  were 
here  to  tell  me  of  them.  My  brother  Cedric 
told  me  he  saw  a  red  and  black  "flycatcher" 
yesterday;  now  I  wonder  just  what  that  was! 

l  To  Bradford  Torrey.    Appledore,  Isles  of  Shoals,  off 
Portsmouth,  May  21,  1889. 


162  LETTERS  OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1889 

Mr.  Brewster  was  here  in  the  middle  of  July 
one  year  when  a  pair  of  vireos  came  and  spent 
the  day  in  the  vine  over  my  piazza;  it  was  so 
pleasant  to  have  them  recognized,  for  I,  alas! 
knew  them  not,  welcome  though  they  were. 

I  do  hope  you  '11  find  your  way  here  this 
summer,  if  only  to  take  a  peep  at  our  wild 
rock.  I  should  be  delighted  to  welcome  you,  I 
assure  you,  more  than  the  vireos,  and  that's 
saying  a  great  deal;  for  I  have  a  passion  for 
birds  and  adore  them,  though  I  am  so  ignorant 
of  them.  But  the  sweet  housekeeping  of  the 
martins  in  the  little  boxes  on  my  piazza  roof 
is  more  enchanting  to  me  than  the  most  fasci 
nating  opera,  and  I  worship  music !  I  think  I 
must  have  begun  a  conscious  existence  as  some 
kind  of  a  bird  in  aeons  past,  I  love  them  so! 
Do  come  and  let  us  have  a  talk  about  them  by 
and  by. 

There's1  a  deep  green  place  where  a  little 
white-blooming  medlar  tree  grows,  and  a  balm  of 
Gilead,  and  tall  wild  roses,  and  ferns  and  alders, 
etc.,  —there  the  land  birds  will  linger  for  a  few 
days.  It  is  very  pleasant,  the  way  they  have 
of  visiting  us  for  a  few  days,  only  we  miss 
them  so  when  they  go !  A  bobolink  spent  all 
i  To  Bradford  Torrey.  Shoals,  May  27, 1889. 


1889]          LETTERS   OF  CELT  A  THAXTER  163 

last  week  with  us,  and  we  really  were  reluctant 
to  come  in  to  our  meals  and  leave  him  singing! 
And  when  a  ferruginous  thrush  came  to  see  us 
last  year,  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  island  used 
to  go  out  and  turn  their  faces  to  the  sky  and 
listen  when  he  began  his  heavenly  pipe !  I  am 
writing  this  at  five  in  the  morning,  and  the 
white- throated  sparrow  is  whistling!  I  really 
think  they  must  build  here;  they  are  always 
heard ;  "  whistlers  "  every  one  calls  them  here. 
I  am  always  up  at  four,  and  I  hear  everything 
every  bird  has  to  say  on  any  subject  whatever. 

To-night1  there  is  the  most  delicious  slender 
red  crescent  sinking  slowly  in  the  west,  throw 
ing  a  mysterious  glimmer  on  the  calm  sea;  there 
is  n't  a  whisper  of  wind,  and  it  is  balmy  and 
beautiful ;  windows  and  doors  all  open ;  a  most 
heavenly  night.  Now  people  begin  to  come 
and  I  must  stop. 

It 2  is  just  before  tea,  and  I  have  watered  my 
ferns  and  little  winter  rose  garden,  and  the  sun 
is  dropping,  large  and  red,  toward  the  sea;  and 
the  water  is  glassy  calm,  so  that  a  whaleboat, 
which  has  just  put  off  with  a  troop  of  young 

1  To  Rose  Lamb.    August  29,  1889. 

2  Tc  Rose  Lamb.    Shoals,  August  31, 1889. 


164  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER          [1889 

people  for  a  sail,  is  being  rowed  heavily  toward 
the  track  of  crimson  light,  not  wind  enough 
stirring  to  fill  her  lazy  sails.  It  is  so  dark  in 
this  corner  where  my  desk  is  that  I  can  scarcely 


Last  night1  was  like  a  dream.  All  the  days 
now  are  exquisite;  the  sun  rises  and  sets  like  a 
crimson  cannon-ball,  and  the  colors  of  things 
are  indescribably  beautiful.  And  the  moon  at 
night,  and  the  soft  airs  and  hazy  stars,  all  things 
make  me  wish  for  you  more  and  more.  Paine 
and  Mason  played  together  Beethoven  duets 
last  evening;  it  was  fine.  Then  Mason  played 
alone,  and  then  Paine.  There  is  an  Alma  Ta- 
dema,  as  I  call  her,  here.  She  looks  so  like 
his  pictures,  —  crisp,  coal-black  hair  that  will 
turn  in  little  rings  all  over  her  head  in  spite  of 
combs  and  braids.  She  came  in  with  a  wind- 
harp  in  her  hand.  She  put  it  in  the  window, 
and  it  mourned  and  wailed.  Later.  I  have 
just  come  over  from  tea.  There  is  no  one 
here.  The  lamps  are  lighted,  the  flowers  glow 
in  their  old  splendor.  Everything  is  full  of  the 
thought  of  you,  dear  Rose ! 

As  I  came  over,  the  light  was  exquisite,  the 
half  moon  red  and  warm  in  mid-heaven,   and 
i  To  Rose  Lamb.     Shoals,  September  4,  1889. 


1889]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  165 

the  west  faintly  luminous;  the  tide  very  high 
and  full,  the  waves  whispering,  the  south  wind 
blowing  softly ;  the  tall  hollyhocks  stirring  gen 
tly  against  sea  and  sky,  the  masses  of  leaves  and 
flowers  in  the  garden  dusky  and  dim,  —  all  so 
quiet. 

How  curious  the  thought  of  the  past  is! 
Nearly  forty  years  ago  this  month  I  was  mar 
ried.  The  moonlight  on  the  water  looked  ex 
actly  the  same  that  evening  as  it  does  now. 
How  many  lives  we  seem  to  live  in  one!  I 
heard  the  cricket  in  the  grass,  the  same  sound 
I  heard  to-night. 

The  boat  is  just  in,  dear  Rose.1  Mr.  Paine 
has  gone  over  for  the  letters.  He  has  been 
playing  sonatas  for  me  this  morning,  ending 
with  the  great  Appassionata.  I  say  "  me, "  for 
there  is  no  one  else  to  listen.  .  .  .  Sat  on  the 
yellow  sofa,  I  in  my  corner  here,  whence  I  can 
look  out  into  the  sunlit,  glowing  garden  through 
the  openings  in  the  vines,  on  the  breezy,  spark 
ling  sea,  whereon  the  haze  lies  like  the  soft 
bloom  on  grapes,  and  it  makes  everything 
dreamy  and  beautiful,  all  the  sails  and  every 
thing.  Such  a  mellow,  golden  day.  We  have 
had  no  such  days  all  summer;  utterly  perfect, 
l  To  Rose  Lamb.  September  5,  1889. 


166  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER 

And  the  gardens  are  all  blooming  afresh,  full 
of  sweet- peas  and  everything. 

My  l  brother  has  shot  three  white  owls  within 
the  last  few  days,  much  to  my  distress.  Per 
fectly  beautiful  they  were,  their  plumage  so 
exquisitely  white  and  soft  and  clean.  My 
brother  (Cedric)  told  me  that  years  ago  he 
counted  twenty-five  within  sight  at  once  here, 
one  autumn,  and  shot  seven  of  them.  I  think 
it  means  an  early  winter  and  cold  when  they 
appear  so  early.  They  are  better  than  many 
cats  for  destroying  the  rats  that  do  congregate 
in  the  most  surprising  way  on  these  rocks. 
Even  the  loneliest  outlying  rocks  are  infested 
with  rats  that  live  on  shellfish,  etc.  And  as 
for  this  big,  rambling  house,  we  have  one  con 
tinual  war,  with  cats  and  poison  and  traps  and 
every  weapon  and  device,  to  keep  them  down 
about  it;  it  really  comes  to  be  a  question  which 
shall  survive,  rats  or  human  beings!  In  the 
autumn,  when  the  birds  should  be  away,  we 
import  an  army  of  cats;  but  I  dread  them,  for 
the  birds  stay  till  the  winter  is  fairly  here, 
scattering  flocks  and  companies,  and  there  is 
continual  massacre  and  flying  of  feathers.  A 
bluebird  came  and  stayed  here  all  alone  for 
1  To  Bradford  Torrey.  Shoals,  November  10,  1889. 


1889]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  167 

more  than  a  week  in  the  last  of  October,  and 
we  watched  him  day  after  day,  and  wondered 
what  he  could  be  thinking  of,  to  stay  here  all 
alone.  His  sweet  cry  attracted  us  first,  and 
then  we  saw  him  actually  alighting  on  the  ten 
nis  wires  and  all  about  the  gardens;  perfectly 
tame  he  seemed  to  be.  A  crow  blackbird,  all 
alone,  too,  came  and  stayed  a  fortnight  and 
over,  into  November,  scratching  like  a  hen 
about  the  manure-heaps  on  the  tennis  ground,  — 
grakle  do  you  call  him  ?  His  neck  was  green 
and  purple  in  the  sunshine,  and  he  looked  like 
a  little  crow.  He  was  so  tame  you  could 
hardly  scare  him  up.  The  song  sparrows  are 
like  little  dogs  and  cats,  so  tame;  one  hopped 
beside  me  on  the  path  a  long  way  as  I  was 
walking  the  other  day,  and  finally  crossed  the 
road  just  before  my  feet  quite  at  his  leisure, 
as  if  he  knew  I  wouldn't  hurry  him.  Did  I 
tell  you  the  pair  of  cuckoos  stayed  here  all 
summer  long,  till  late  in  the  season,  into  Sep 
tember?  Yesterday  we  found  a  cat  had  de 
voured  a  large  bird,  —  large  as  a  thrush.  I 
did  n't  see  him,  but  they  told  me  about  it,  and 
I  found  the  feathers,  dark  blue-gray,  and  olive 
at  the  tips.  I  startled  a  big  brown  owl  out 
from  under  the  eaves  of  the  piazza  last  week : 
he  flew  away  and  I  did  not  see  him  again. 


168  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1889 

Nuthatches  creep  up  and  down  the  roofs  and 
peer  at  the  edges  of  the  shingles.  The  most 
enchanting  little  wrens  have  haunted  the  gar 
dens  this  fall.  A  pleasant  day  comes  and  the 
island  is  alive  with  wings,  and  when  it  is  cold 
they  are  gone.  We  have  had  many  more 
crows  than  usual  this  autumn.  Coots  and 
loons  and  ducks,  etc.,  my  brother  shoots  when 
ever  he  can,  of  course.  All  summer  we  hardly 
see  a  gull;  now  the  water  is  white  with  them. 

I  have  read  your l  beautiful  book,  every  single 
word  of  it,  with  the  greatest  possible  pleasure, 
and  1  feel  like  shaking  hands  with  you  with 
both  hands.  Not  only  have  I  read  it  once, 
but  I  take  it  up  again  and  again  for  pure  pleas 
ure.  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  I  sympa 
thize  with  your  moods,  with  your  philosophy, 
with  all  you  say.  "Esoteric  Peripateticism " 
is  the  most  delightful  of  all,  I  think.  I  do  so 
heartily  agree  with  you!  "Some  of  the  best 
things  of  this  life,  things  unseen  and  therefore 
eternal,  are  never  to  be  come  at  industriously." 
"  Behind  the  Eye  "  is  another  favorite  of  mine. 
Did  you  ever  watch  the  fading  out  of  a  life? 
Have  you  noticed,  when  people  go  out  of  this 

i  To   Bradford  Torrey.    47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,   De 
cember  13,  1889. 


1889]  LETTERS   OF   CELT  A.   THAXTER  169 

world,  they  pass  from  behind  their  eyes,  pre 
cisely  as  when  a  face  looks  from  a  window  and 
then  leaves  it  1  —  there  is  the  window,  but  the 
person  is  gone.  Not  extinguished,  never!  but 
simply  passed  away  from  behind  the  windows 
from  which  all  their  lives  they  have  looked. 

I  think  we  all  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude 
for  letting  us  see  with  your  eyes  and  hear  with 
your  ears  as  you  take  us  straying  through  the 
country.  An  old  woman  said  to  me  once,  "I 
have  just  been  reading  your  book.  How  you 
must  enjoy  your  mind!"  I  am  sure  I  enjoy 
yours,  and  love  to  read  all  you  have  to  say. 
Haven't  you  a  spare  photograph  of  yourself? 
It  is  a  curious  feeling  to  write  to  "a  mind  "  en 
tirely,  in  this  impersonal  way.  Please  send  your 
shadow  to  me,  and  I  will  send  you  my  flower- 
bank  and  myself,  a  grandmother  of  fifty-four. 

Don't  think  it  arrogance  when  I  say  I  think  I 
have  a  deeper  enjoyment  and  understanding  of 
your l  book  than  most  people ;  it  is  only  because 
I.  have  lived  so  much  of  my  life  quite  alone 
with  nature.  It  seems  as  if  a  spring  of  joyful 
recognition  leapt  within  me,  as  you  were  of  my 
kin.  People  do  go  through  life  so  blindly,  so 

i  To  Bradford  Torrey.  47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,  Decem 
ber  20,  1889. 


170  LETTERS   OF   CELT  A   THAXTER  [1889 

dark  and  deaf  to  this  beautiful  world  you  know 
so  well,  so  dead  to  the  keen  and  exquisite  en 
joyment  Nature  offers  to  all  who  will  take  it. 

I  was  pleased  to  come  across  one  of  your 
quotations  about  "blunting  the  fine  point  of 
seldom  pleasure"  from  the  Shakespeare  sonnet. 
T  know  and  love  well  those  matchless  son 
nets!  I  think,  if  all  the  books  in  the  world 
had  to  go,  I  should  snatch  this  little  volume  in 
preference  to  anything  else,  to  live  with  grate 
fully  the  rest  of  my  life.  How  few  people 
kitow  or  care  about  them !  But  what  exhaust- 
less  wealth,  what  wisdom,  what  splendor,  what 
utter  perfection  of  expression!  The  force  of 
language  can  no  further  go. 

Your  note  with  the  knawel  just  comes. 
Thank  you  much.  Now  I  don't  know  it.  It 
is  very  like  a  little  rose-purple,  star-shaped 
flower  which  carpets  the  ground  in  places  at 
the  Shoals;  I  mean  the  leaves  are  like.  I  won 
der  if  you  know  what  I  mean?  Color  and 
shape  are  exquisite,  but  the  blossom  very  tiny. 

Thank  you l  for  the  second  beautiful  book 
which  came  on  Christmas  Day.  I  am  reading 
it  very  slowly,  because  I  enjoy  it  so  much,  and 

i  To   Bradford   Torrey.    47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,   De 
cember  27,  1889. 


1890]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  171 

go  back  and  read  over  again,  and  am  miserly 
about  the  pleasure  of  it,  and  make  it  last  as 
long  as  I  can,  and  after  it  is  all  done  what  a 
lovely  mood  it  leaves  one  in!  There  are  few 
books,  in  these  latter  days  at  least,  that  I  wish 
to  take  up  again  and  again  for  the  refreshment 
they  bring ;  and  it  is  the  finest  kind  of  a  com 
pliment  that  can  be  paid  to  a  writer,  this  of 
real  love  for  his  work,  —  a  wish  to  make  a 
companion  of  it,  and  to  keep  it  always  at  hand 
for  the  pure  enjoyment  of  it.  I  heard  the  her 
mit  thrushes  in  South  Berwick  woods.  Sarah 
Jewett  drove  me  down  into  the  woods  just 
after  sunset,  and  we  sat  in  the  carriage  and  lis 
tened.  I  had  never  heard  them  before.  What 
an  experience  it  was  I  leave  you  to  guess. 
What  you  say  about  them  is  most  interesting, 
and  how  true  it  is  that  a  single  movement  of 
Beethoven's  is  better  than  a  whole  world  of 
Liszt's  transcriptions!  I  don't  know  the  brown 
thrush's  song,  at  least  as  such.  Does  n't  Bur 
roughs  say  somewhere  that  the  jay  has  a  deli 
cious  love  song?  Do  you  know  it?  I  have 
not  yet  come  to  it,  perhaps. 

I  was  delighted  when  you1  classed   the  song 

i  To  Bradford  Torrey.    47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,  Jan 
uary  5, 1890. 


172  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1890 

sparrow  among  the  immortals !  Do  you  know, 
I  have  noticed  them,  too,  crouching  to  protect 
their  legs  from  the  biting  wind  while  they  fed. 
Tell  me,  have  you  ever  tied  mutton  and  beef 
bones  to  the  trees  immediately  around  the 
house  where  you  live,  for  the  birds?  In  the 
yard  of  the  house  at  Newton,  where  we  used  to 
live,  I  was  in  the  habit  of  fastening  these  bones 
(from  cooked  meat)  to  a  cherry-tree  which  grew 
close  to  my  sitting-room  window ;  and  when  the 
snow  lay  thick  upon  the  ground,  that  tree 
would  be  alive  with  bluejays  and  chickadees 
and  woodpeckers,  red-headed  and  others,  and 
sparrows  (not  English),  and  various  other  de 
lightful  creatures.  I  was  never  tired  watching 
them  and  listening  to  them.  Has  not  your 
heart  been  torn  with  the  horrors  of  women's 
headgear  this  winter?  I  never  have  seen  the 
like.  It  is  something  monstrous ;  every  femi 
nine  biped  goes  feathered  through  the  streets. 
I  notice  Browning  has  a  shot  at  these  senseless 
women  in  " Asolando,"  his  last  book: 

"  What  clings 
Half  savage  like  around  your  hat  ? 

.  .  .  Wild-bird  wings  I 
Next  season,  Paris  prints  assert, 
We  must  go  feathered  to  the  skirt." 
Then  the  man  speaks :  — 

"You,  clothed  with  murder  of  His  best 
And  harmless  beings! " 


1890]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  173 

"Clothed  with  murder,"  that  expresses  it. 
Poor  birds !  Did  you  notice  that  six  per  cent 
of  the  myriads  of  birds  killed  by  the  Statue 
of  Liberty  lighthouse  were  Maryland  yellow- 
throats?  By  and  by  there  will  be  no  more 
birds  at  all.  But  I  hope  I  shall  be  dead  before 
that  happens. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  hear  of  your l  lovely  life ! 
It  is  all  as  it  should  be.  ...  To  have  each 
other,  and  a  home  so  sweet,  is  the  best  earth 
has  to  give  to  her  children.  Truly  I  am  sorry 
I  have  to  be  away  just  when  you  are  settled  in 
town.  How  I  should  love  to  see  your  charm 
ing  nest!  But  it  is  long  since  I  have  been 
in  Boston,  even  for  an  hour,  and  I  have  almost 
forgotten  how  the  city  looks.  I  am  disap 
pointed  not  to  be  able  yet  to  paint  the  olive-jar 
I  planned  for  you.  .  .  .  Yet  I  will  not  fret, 
but  take  it  patiently ;  it  might  be  much  worse. 
When  one  gets  to  my  age,  the  one  word  of 
which  we  must  learn  the  meaning  is  renuncia 
tion.  Things  that  seemed  so  important,  so 
indispensable,  —  we  learn  to  let  them  go,  and 
patiently  see  friends  and  faces  vanish  and  all 
things  depart,  till  we  follow,  too,  and  "lose  our 
lives  to  find  them."  But  you  two  joyful- 

1  To  Mrs.  Arthur  Whiting.    January  9,  1890. 


174  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1890 

hearted  are  a  long,  long  way  from  this  mile 
stone  in  the  road  of  earthly  existence. 

I  am  glad  you1  liked  the  verses,  and  glad  to 
have  your  letter  this  morning,  as  we  are  all 
sitting  on  our  trunks,  so  to  speak,  weather 
bound,  packed  for  the  Shoals,  and  kept  by 
rains  and  gales  for  days. 

I  should  have  written  before,  dear  Ada,  for 
I  have  thought  of  you  much  and  often,  but  I 
have  been  fighting  with  nervous  prostration  all 
winter,  with  the  waves  going  over  me  until 
I  was  wellnigh  drowned.  I  have  given  my 
strength  all  away  all  my  life,  and  now  I  am 
bankrupt.  But  I  am  fighting  my  way  up  out 
of  the  N.  P.  with  the  help  of  a  wise  old  doctor 
who  lives  not  far  from  here,  who  feeds  me  on 
champagne,  which  makes  of  me  a  new  creature 
quite.  But  I  've  not  much  strength  to  write, 
though  I  have  so  much  to  talk  about.  .  .  .  Do 
come  to  the  Shoals  for  as  long  as  you  can. 
This  spinning  footstool  is  such  a  slight  hold  for 
our  feet,  we  shall  all  disperse  so  soon  our  flit 
ting  shades!  And  where  then,  who  then,  of 
those  we  love  1 

i  To  Adaline  Hepworth.    47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,  April 
8,  1890. 


1890]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  175 

I l  am  all  the  time  vexed  at  my  ignorance,  and 
wish  somebody  were  here  to  tell  me  the  differ 
ent  birds  and  recognize  these  delicious  voices. 
There  are  more  birds  than  usual  this  year,  I 
am  happy  to  say.  The  women  have  n't  assas 
sinated  them  all  for  the  funeral  pyres  they  carry 
on  their  heads.  The  martins,  white-breasted 
swallows,  came  promptly  the  first  day  of  April 
and  took  up  their  quarters  in  the  boxes  we  pre 
pared  for  them,  and  very  soon  all  sorts  of  birds 
arrived  by  the  thousands  and  made  the  island 
alive  with  sound  and  motion,  —  legions  of  yel 
low  hammers,  red  -  headed  woodpeckers,  song 
sparrows,  and  many  other  kinds;  blackbirds, 
creepers,  wrens,  robins,  bluebirds;  any  quantity 
of  a  greenish-yellow  bird,  small;  and  slate-col 
ored  birds  with  white  feathers  in  tail,  a  black 
cap,  and  grayish- white  whiskers  (the  feathers  at 
sides  of  the  head  had  that  effect).  A  flock  of 
nearly  a  hundred  blue  herons  alighted  on  a 
little  island  near  us,  Londoners',  and  made  the 
air  ring  with  their  noise.  What  is  the  bird 
that  comes  in  such  numbers,  —  greenish  olive 
with  grayish-brown  breast  covered  with  per 
fectly  circular  brown  spots,  a  bird  not  quite  so 
large  as  a  robin  1  Some  sort  of  thrush  1 

i  To  Bradford  Torrey.    Appledore,  Isles  of  Shoals,  off 
Portsmouth,  May  1, 1890. 


176  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   TIIAXTER  [1890 

May  2d.  Yesterday  appeared  the  barn 
swallows.  In  the  hollow  where  the  houses 
stand  the  white  -  throated  sparrows  whistle 
sweet!  And  I  hear  the  phoebes,  and  many, 
many  others  whose  voices  I  know,  but  whose 
names  I  don't  know.  Anything  like  the  joy 
in  the  voices  of  the  martins  and  swallows  I 
don't  believe  can  be  found  in  nature.  Pure 
gladness  without  alloy.  Though  the  song  spar 
row  is  sweet  and  friendly  in  his  tones,  he 
does  not  begin  to  be  so  thoughtlessly  gay.  I 
heard  the  first  sandpiper  yesterday.  What  a 
heavenly,  mellow,  tender  call!  The  stillness 
is  so  profound  here  (no  human  sounds;  only 
when  winds  and  waters  are  stirring  is  the 
silence  broken),  that  every  call  of  any  bird 
seems  to  have  twice  the  significance  that  it 
has  elsewhere;  you  get  the  whole  value  of  it. 
Until  the  middle  of  June  the  quiet  is  undis 
turbed;  then  comes  an  eddy  of  humanity  from 
the  great  world,  —  chatter  of  voices,  patter  of 
feet,  much  empty  sound  up  and  down  the  long 
piazzas,  women  with  carcasses  of  the  birds  I 
love  borne  in  simple  vanity  above  their  faces; 
much  that  is  pleasant,  too,  for  I  have  my  own 
corner,  my  little  garden  and  my  friends,  and 
the  piazza  is  no  more  to  me  than  Washington 
Street.  In  September  away  the  crowd  blows, 


1890]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  177 

like  leaves  in  wind,  and  down  conies  the  healing 
balm  of  quiet  again  upon  the  place.  I  do  hope 
you  can  run  down  and  take  a  look  at  it  some 
time  during  the  summer. 

I  had  a  dispute  —  no,  I  never  dispute !  I  de 
spise  it,  but  a  difference  of  opinion  —  with  a 
friend  about  what  you  say  on  page  sixty-nine 
of  the  "  Rambler, "  in  that  most  charming  chap, 
ter.  Of  course  the  boy  of  ten  years  is  yourself, 
—  your  memory  of  yourself  at  that  age,  which 
walks  with  you  in  your  rambles  to-day,  for  you 
say  it,  "I  know  that  those  who  meet  and  pass 
me  see  only  one. "  I  do  not  even  ask  if  it  is 
so;  I  know  it.  Yet  my  friend  insisted  it  must 
be  some  child  who  walked  with  you ! 

The  flowers  are  earlier  here  this  year,  eye- 
bright,  anemone,  erythronium,  etc. 

How  come  on  your  essays  ?  And  have  you 
not  any  more  of  the  collection  of  bird  poems  ? 
I  have  thought  of  several  which  would  occur 
to  you,  —Dana's  lovely  "Beach"  and  Bryant's 
"Waterfowl,"  "The  Birds  of  Killingworth, »  of 
course,  etc.  Must  they  be  Americans  only? 
There  are  such  beautiful  English  verses ! 

Yes,1    indeed,    I    have    been   terribly   ill, — at 

death's    door;    neuralgia  of    the    stomach,    the 

1  To  Adaline  Hepworth.    Shoals,  June  8,  1890. 


178  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1890 

doctor  says ;  too  near  the  heart,  you  know.  It 
would  not  yield  to  morphine  or  anything,  this 
last  attack,  and  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
die,  except  for  the  thought  of  Karl.  I  don't 
mind  the  change  of  state  any  more  than  chang 
ing  the  town  I  live  in  here,  though  I  don't 
think  any  one  gets  more  enjoyment  out  of 
life  than  I  do,  or  loves  more  God's  expres 
sion  of  himself  in  this  world.  But  I  don't 
shrink  in  the  least  at  the  thought  of  the 
change.  If  Karl  could  only  go  with  me !  He 
will  be  so  desolate !  These  attacks  are  always 
hanging  over  me,  like  a  sword  by  a  hair,  to 
slash  my  chrysalis  and  set  me  free.  Oh,  my 
dear,  they  won't  let  me  do  a  thing,  and  I 
mustn't  write.  I  shall  only  say  it  gives  me  the 
deepest  joy  to  think  of  you  and  dear  old  George 
coming  so  early,  and  I  will  have  that  room 
behind  the  parlor  held  fast  for  you,  if  it  is  a 
possible  thing,  for  my  own  delight  and  satisfac 
tion  in  having  you  near.  I  long  to  see  you. 

I1  have  moved  down  to  my  mother's  room 
from  the  lonesome  cottage.  The  little  garden 
is  splendid  with  flowers  now,  and  draped  to  the 
eaves  with  thick  vines.  To-day  the  rain  falls 
steadily,  the  slow,  autumn  rain.  There  is  no 

i  To  Adaline  Hepworth.    September  15, 1890. 


1890]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  179 

sound,  except  the  falling  drops,  — of  wind,  or 
sea,  or  bird,  or  human  creature;  it  seems  like 
the  end  of  life,  so  still  and  so  motionless.  I 
think  I  must  go  over  to  Portsmouth  early  this 
year.  The  silence  weighs  on  me.  I  am  tired 
after  all  the  long  summer. 

The  griefs  God  sends,  if  one  only  stops  to 
think,  after  all  are  easy  to  bear,  because  God 
sends  them.  It  is  only  the  pain  one  brings  on 
one's  self  that  cannot  so  patiently  be  borne. 

You  l  would  have  laughed  to  see  the  box  of 
toads  which  came  for  me  night  before  last! 
Ninety  toads,  all  wired  over  in  a  box,  and  won 
dering  what  fate  was  in  store  for  them,  no 
doubt.  Soon  as  the  mowing  was  done,  all  the 
million  slugs  in  the  grass  charged  into  my  poor 
garden,  and  post  haste  I  sent  for  more  of  my 
little  dusky  pets,  my  friends,  my  saviors! 
And  I  turned  the  ninety  loose  in  the  fat  slug 
ging  grounds,  and  such  a  breakfast  as  they  must 
have  had !  If  there  's  one  thing  I  adore  more 
than  another,  it's  a  toad!  They  eat  every 
bug  in  the  garden!  In  France  it  is  quite  an 
industry,  catching  toads  and  selling  them  to 
gardeners;  did  you  know  it?  I  have  only  just 
found  it  out. 

i  To  Annie  Fields. 


180  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1891 

I  don't  know  what  you  1  will  think  of  my  delay 
in  acknowledging  your  kindness,  but  I  have 
been  under  the  weather  for  the  last  week  or 
two,  and  I  would  not  write  you  till  I  had 
read  every  word  of  this  most  beautiful  book 
you  sent  me.2  Believe  me,  there  is  not  one 
line,  one  word  of  it  all,  that  I  do  not  fully 
recognize  and  thoroughly  appreciate.  Alas,  I 
have  been  all  through  this  sorrow !  step  by  step 
I  could  go  with  her  on  the  way.  In  the  little 
parchment-covered  volume  I  sent  you,  the  verses 
"  Impatience, "  "  Her  Mirror, "  "  Compensation, " 
all  grew  out  of  my  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  my 
dear  mother,  a  loss  to  which  I  never  can  be 
come  accustomed.  I  don't  mean  to  say  for 
a  moment  that  my  verses  come  near  Edith 
Thomas's,  but  there  is  the  same  intense  feeling 
in  both.  I  think  this  book  of  hers  felicitous, 
title  and  all,  most  beautiful,  as  I  said  before, 
and  I  read  and  reread  it  with  a  pleasure  that 
never  ceases.  I  thank  you  so  much  for  it! 
What  an  exquisite  and  elegant  little  book  it  is 
outside,  too !  and  so  pleasant  to  the  touch !  It 
is  a  treasure. 

Tell    me,    are    you    gathering    pussy-willows 

1  To  Bradford  Torrey.    47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,  Feb 
ruary  8,  1891. 

2  The  Inverted  Torch,  by  Edith  M.  Thomas. 


1891]  LETTERS  OF  CELIA  THAXTER  181 

and  alder  catkins  by  the  armf uls  as  I  am  here  ? 
For  Goths  and  Vandals  are  hacking  and  hewing 
at  everything  in  the  lovely  wild  roadsides,  and 

I  bring   these  darlings   home    and    give    them 
away  right  and  left,    such  delicious   tokens   of 
spring  at  hand!     They   are   so   beautiful    this 
year,  all  rose  and  silver.      There  'a  an  old  road, 
called  the  Gosling  Road,  —  delightful  name !  — 
in  Newington,  close  by,  where  I  go  for  them. 
Such  troops  of  chickadees  I  find!  and  prowling 
shrikes  in  all  directions,  ready  to  slay  and  spit 
them   on   thorns.      Why   must    there    be    such 
deadly  enemies   constructed  for  anything  that 
lives!     What   between   the   shrikes   and   owls, 
and  cats  and  weasels,  and  women,  —  worst  of 
all!  —  I  wonder    there's    a    bird  left   on   this 
planet!     They  sent  up  sixty-eight  snowy  owls 
from  Cape  Neddick,  below  this  on  the  coast,  in 
a  batch  last  month!     Such  wholesale  butchery 
is    something    terrible.      "They,"   I    said,    not 
the  women  this  time !  but  everything  that  wore 
trousers  was  shooting  white  owls  the  first   of 
the  winter.      Robins  are  singing  at  the  Shoals. 

II  have  been  packing  this  afternoon  and   am 
tired.      I  have  to  be  so  careful  of  myself,  and 
this  mysterious    thing   which   seizes  me   is  so 

1  To  Anna  Eichberg  King.    Portsmouth,  March  18, 1891. 


182  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1891 

mysterious,  coming  upon  me  with  no  reason 
and  no  warning,  I  never  feel  safe  a  moment, 
though  I  take  every  precaution  in  my  power 
to  circumvent  the  enemy.  Oh,  it  is  not  death 
I  fear  and  dread,  but  a  long,  suffering  illness, 
dying  a  hundred  deaths  of  pain  before  release, 
and  making  those  who  love  me  suffer  involun 
tarily  through  my  suffering.  That  is  what  I 
dread.  I  shall  be  so  thankful  if  I  may  slip 
away  in  a  flash;  this  is  the  boon  for  which  I 
pray.  Last  spring  I  was  near  that  crumbling 
verge,  and  oh,  what  fiery  torment  I  went 
through!  I  don't  like  this  feeling  of  uncer 
tainty,  and  I  am  half  afraid  to  go  to  the  Shoals, 
much  as  I  desire  to  do  so,  before  boats  run 
regularly. 

It1  is  only  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Since  my  illness  I  can  seldom  sleep  after  two, 
and  in  the  long,  still  hours  a  thought  has  come 
into  my  mind  which  I  want  to  propose  to  you. 
Do  you  not  think  it  would  perhaps  do  you 
good  if  you  came  here  early,  if  only  for  a  few 
days  or  a  week,  while  it  is  yet  fresh  and  still 
and  no  humanity  to  speak  of  about  1  It  is  more 
than  three  years  since  I  have  seen  you. 

I  am  feeling  the  loss  of  Mr.  Ware  so  much! 
l  To  Anna  Eichberg  King.    Shoals,  April  21,  1891. 


1891]  LETTERS   OF  CELT  A   THAXTER  183 

He  was  very  near  and  dear  to  me,  and  I  leaned 
on  him;  he  was  full  of  cheer  and  strength 
and  comfort,  and  I  loved  him.  If  death  were 
the  exception  and  not  the  rule,  and  we  were 
not  so  swiftly  to  follow,  these  separations  would 
be  intolerably  sad.  We  know  no  more  of  our 
next  change  of  life  than  we  knew  of  this  be 
fore  we  were  born  into  it;  but  that  what  we 
call  death  is  merely  change,  who  can  doubt? 
Surely  you  do  not,  do  you,  dear  Annie?  We 
shall  follow  and  find  them  all,  those  who  belong 

to  us. 

"For  Life  is  ever  Lord  of  Death, 
And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own." 

The1  "bay  birds,"  as  people  about  here  call 
the  swimming  sandpiper,  are  seen  only  in  the 
spring,  at  least  my  brother  has  only  seen  them 
at  this  season,  and  he  sees  them  almost  every 
day  as  he  crosses  the  nine  miles  of  brine  be 
twixt  here  and  the  port  of  Portsmouth.  He 
says  he  sees  them  in  very  large  flocks,  yester 
day  saw  a  flock  of  about  twenty-five,  but  sees 
them  in  very  much  larger  flocks,  and  almost 
always  accompanied  by  a  small  gull  about  as  big 
as  a  tern,  which  is  not  a  tern  at  all,  but  quite 
different.  This  gull  flies  with  them,  swims 
with  them,  seems  always  attendant  upon  them, 
l  To  Bradford  Torrey.  Shoals,  May  21, 1891. 


184  LETTERS   OF  CELT  A  THAXTER          [1891 

and  is  not  seen  at  any  other  time.  He  does 
not  know  it  at  all.  There  are  all  sorts  of  gulls 
about  here,  you  know,  but  this  is  a  rare  crea 
ture.  I  have  only  seen  the  "bay  bird"  once, 
and  that  was  a  single  specimen  that  I  think 
must  have  been  wounded  or  disabled  in  some 
way,  yet  I  could  see  no  trace  of  any  injury 
about  him.  He  was  swimming  about  the 
wharf  near  the  landing,  a  pretty,  dainty  crea 
ture,  in  soft  shades  of  gray  and  white,  with  the 
"needle-like  beak,"  and  a  rapidity  of  motion 
that  I  have  never  seen  equaled  in  anything 
except  a  darting  dragon-fly,  or  some  restless 
insect.  He  was  never  for  one  instant  still, 
darting  after  his  food  on  the  surface  of  the 
water.  He  seemed  perfectly  tame;  wasn't  the 
least  afraid  of  anything  or  anybody,  merely 
moving  aside  to  avoid  an  oar-blade,  and  swaying 
almost  on  to  the  rocks  with  the  swirl  of  the 
water.  I  watched  him  till  I  was  tired,  and 
went  away  and  left  him  still  frisking.  I  am  so 
glad  to  tell  you  of  something  you  haven't  seen! 
I  wish  you  could  tell  me  about  the  different 
sorts  of  sparrows  that  pester  and  delight  us. 
They  drag  the  sweet- peas  out  of  the  ground 
persistently,  when  they  are  ten  inches  long 
from  root  to  top.  There  is  one  huge  fellow, 
big  as  a  robin,  but  "chunky,"  and  dim  in  plu- 


1891]          LETTERS  OF   CELIA   THAXTER  185 

mage;  he  eats  buds  of  trees,  and  has  a  sharp, 
single-cutting  note,  something  like  the  English 
variety.  Then  there  is  one  a  whole  size  larger 
than  the  song  sparrow,  with  a  striped  black 
and  white  head ;  he  devours  everything.  Then 
there  are  myriad  song-sparrows  and  "chippies" 
and  vespers,  and  I  am  sure  a  pair  of  white- 
throats  have  a  nest  among  some  tall  bushes;  I 
hear  their  brimming  note,  thrice  repeated,  con 
tinually,  beginning  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing. 

Oh  dear,  I  shall  not  die  happy  till  I  have 
had  a  bird  talk  with  you !  I  want  to  be  posted 
on  swallows.  We  call  the  white  -  breasted, 
square-tailed  kind,  with  brilliant  metallic-blue 
backs,  martins;  are  we  right?  They  build  in 
little  bird-houses  all  over  the  place.  Then 
there  are  barn  and  chimney  swallows.  I  have 
a  perfect  skeleton  of  a  swallow  found  in  a  nest 
on  my  piazza,  perfect.  I  wonder  if  you  would 
like  it  ? 

It l  is  a  difficult  task  to  chose  among  Mr.  Whit- 
tier's  poems  those  which  I  like  best,  there  are 
so  many  that  have  become  a  part  of  my  life,  so 
many  that  appeal  with  resistless  force  to  every 

l  To  C.  E.  L.  Wingate.    Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  November  2^ 
1891. 


186  LETTERS  OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1891 

thoughtful  soul.  I  have  always  regarded  him 
as  New  England's  greatest  lyric  poet,  essentially 
an  outgrowth  of  her  soil  and  rich  with  all  her 
native  picturesqueness  and  peculiar  charm,  ap 
pealing  to  the  hearts  of  her  people  with  a  direct 
ness  which  does  not  fail  to  reach  the  lowliest  as 
well  as  the  most  cultured.  Our  other  famous 
poets  are  stars  of  the  same  magnitude  doubtless, 
but  of  a  different  color,  and  the  high,  pure  light 
of  Whittier's  genius  burns  clear  and  stands  alone 
with  an  immortal  beauty  of  its  own,  belonging 
to  the  things  which  are  eternal.  He  is  a  power 
for  good  in  his  own  land  and  in  the  world,  a 
landmark  up  to  which  all  struggling  souls  may 
look  and  gather  fresh  courage  to  climb.  How 
many  instances  I  recall  in  which  I  have  seen  his 
beautiful  words  comforting  the  weariness  of  age 
and  inspiring  with  noble  impulses  the  fiery  heart 
of  youth!  Truly  I  know  of  no  one  who  has 
been  more  revered  and  beloved.  His  very  name 
is  a  symbol  of  Truth  and  unflinching  integrity, 
and  the  good  he  has  done  comes  back  to  him 
now  in  the  blessing  his  friends  and  his  country 
bring  to  him  with  the  homage  of  their  admiration. 

Nothing  but  sickness  in  the  family  would  have 

prevented  my  replying  to  your l  most  dear  and 

1  To  Clara  Kathleen  Rogers.  Portsmouth,  January  2, 189a 


1892]  LETTERS   OF   CELT  A  THAXTER  187 

kind  letter  long  before  this,  but  that  I  valued 
it  most  deeply  I  am  sure  you  know. 

R 's  little  family  have  been  with  me  for 

two  months,  absorbing  every  instant  of  my 
time,  with  the  two  babes,  and  in  the  last  month 
both  were  ailing  more  or  less  with  colds,  and 
the  elder  had  a  severe  attack  of  grippe,  for 
such  a  little  fellow,  and  I  have  been  so  anxious, 
so  anxious  I  cannot  express  it  to  you.  For 
when  he  grew  better  his  mother  had  to  leave 
him  with  us  (for  he  was  n't  fit  to  go)  while 
she  took  possession,  with  the  rest  of  the  family, 
of  their  new  little  house  in  Cambridge;  and 
there  is  much  to  be  done  getting  settled  in 
a  new  house,  you  know,  and  a  little  baby  in 
arms  with  its  nurse,  and  trying  to  find  a  cook, 
and  everything  at  once.  So  the  sweet  little 
Eliot  stayed  with  his  "granna,"  who  wor 
ships  the  ground  he  walks  on,  and  counted  every 
beat  of  his  quick-fluttering  little  heart.  Oh,  I 
never  meant  in  my  old  age  to  become  subject 
to  the  thrall  of  a  love  like  this!  it  is  almost 
dreadful  —  so  absorbing,  so  stirring,  down  to 
the  deeps.  For  the  tiny  creature  is  so  old  and 
wise  and  sweet,  and  so  fascinating  in  his  sturdy 
common  sense  and  clear  intelligence,  and  his 
affection  for  me  is  a  wonderful,  exquisite  thing, 
the  sweetest  flower  that  has  bloomed  for  me  in 


188  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1892 

all  my  life  through.  Now  that  we  have  carried 
him  home  to  Cambridge,  I  miss  him  so  that  it 
takes  all  my  philosophy  to  meet  the  emergency. 
His  toys,  his  books,  all  the  tokens  of  his  en 
chanting  presence,  fairly  wring  my  heart,  for  I 
want  him  every  day  and  hour  and  minute. 
You  will  think  me  a  demented  old  creature,  I 
fear,  but  the  whole  thing  is  so  new  and  strange 
and  unexpected  to  myself  that  I  can't  get  used 
to  it.  He  is  only  three  years  old,  this  baby, 
but  we  converse  as  if  he  were  quite  as  old  as 
his  granna!  He  is  perfectly  bewitching,  tall 
as  if  he  were  five,  in  a  suit  of  dark  blue  cloth, 
little  breeches  and  blouse,  and  broad  linen  collar 
with  a  knotted  necktie,  soft  and  broad,  under 
his  chin;  and  his  fair  hair,  like  the  yellow 
harvest  moonlight,  very  fair  and  lustrous,  cut 
close  to  his  noble,  compact  head.  How  can 
his  grandmother  do  anything  but  fall  hopelessly 
in  love  with  him!  There's  a  little  girl,  too, 
like  a  wild  rose,  a  year  old,  and  she  is  charm 
ing,  but  Eliot  has  carried  all  my  heart  away. 

I  am  sorry  that  your1  faces  are  turned  away 
from  the  sea,  but  I  dare  say  it  is  best  for  you, 
and  I  am  sure  it  must  be  beautiful  in  Cornish. 
I  am  always  longing  to  have  the  people  I  love 
1  To  Mrs.  Arthur  Whiting.  Portsmouth,  January  7, 1892 


1892]  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  189 

near  me;  that  is  my  idea  of  heaven,  just  to 
have  the  souls  that  belong  to  me  within  reach, 
all  the  people  with  whom  I  am  in  sympathy, 
all,  in  a  word,  whom  I  love.  But  though  I  so 
seldom  see  you  or  hear  of  or  from  you,  I  never 
forget  you  and  Arthur.  I  have  the  sincerest 
affection  for  you  both,  and  it  is  always  a  joy  to 
think  of  you  together. 

I  am  thankful  you  are  both  well.  Illness  is 
such  a  terrible  thing;  and  to  have  our  dearest 
suffering,  what  a  tug  it  is  on  the  heart  and  soul 
of  us!  I  am  well,  but  must  walk  just  such  a 
path  and  no  other  to  keep  so,  spending  one 
half  of  every  day  out  of  doors,  no  matter  where 
below  zero  the  thermometer  has  gone,  or  what 
is  falling  from  the  clouds. 

Sometimes  I  find  myself  in  Boston,  on  my 
way  to  my  enchanting  grandchildren,  and  if  I 
ever  can  get  a  minute  I  will  try  to  find  you  in 
your  cozy  nest.  I  know  it  must  be  charming 
where  you  and  Arthur  have  made  your  home. 

I1  have  been  once  more  to  Cambridge,  flying 
back  next  day,  to  see  my  little  boy,  who  is 
growing  stronger,  Heaven  be  praised,  every  day, 
though  he  looks  still  pretty  white  and  thin,  but 
I  think  he  is  on  the  road  to  health  and  feel 
1  To  Annie  Fields.  Portsmouth,  January  10, 1892. 


190  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  [1892 

better  about  him.  He  clung  to  my  neck. 
"Only  one  granna,"  he  said,  "only  one!"  He 
frightens  me;  if  he  were  fifty  instead  of  three 
he  could  not  say  more  thoughtful  things. 

I  thought  of  you  when  I  read  that  fine  ar 
ticle  of  Emerson's  in  the  Atlantic.  There  is 
no  one  like  him.  Do  you  remember  this  pas- 


"It  is  the  property  of  the  religious  sentiment 
to  be  the  most  refining  of  all  influences.  No 
external  advantages,  no  good  birth  or  breeding, 
no  culture  of  taste,  no  habit  of  command,  no 
association  with  the  elegant,  even  no  depth  of 
affection  that  does  not  rise  to  a  religious  senti 
ment,  can  bestow  that  delicacy  and  grandeur  of 
bearing  which  belong  to  a  mind  accustomed  to 
celestial  conservations.  All  else  is  coarse  and 
external,  all  else  is  tailoring  and  cosmetics,  be 
side  this,  for  thoughts  are  expressed  in  every 
look  and  gesture,  and  these  thoughts  are  as  if 
angels  had  talked  with  the  child." 

I  did  not  know  who  wrote  the  article  as  I 
turned  the  pages  of  the  magazine,  looking  at 
the  opening  lines  of  each;  and  the  moment  I 
read  the  first  words  of  this,  I  found  I  could  not 
stop,  held  by  so  fine  a  spell  was  I,  and,  turning 
to  the  cover  to  see  who  spoke  with  such  a 
voice,  lo!  Emerson!  No  wonder  I  was  held. 


1892]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  191 

In  little  more  than  another  week,  perhaps  a 
fortnight,  I  hope  to  go  once  more  for  a  night  to 
my  children,  and  then  see  you  with  these  loving 
eyes. 

I  enclose  a  grosbeak's  foot,  and  must  tell  you J 
about  it.      Day  before  yesterday  I  was  driving 
through  deep  sands,  and  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  road  lay  a  dead  grosbeak,   frozen  stiff,  on 
his  back,  and  with  this  string  fastened  to  his 
leg.      Poor  little  thing!     I  picked  him  up,  and 
have   been  wondering   how  under  heaven  that 
string  ever  got  itself  wound  around  his  leg  in 
such  a  way.      It  looks  as  if  some  one  had  tied 
it  there,  doesn't  it?     I  send  it  to  you  because 
it  is  so  curious;  don't  send  it  back.      The  place 
was  far  from  any  houses.      I  am  sure  it  caught 
and  caused  the  bird's  death.      I  have  been  driv 
ing  this  morning  nearly  to  Mount  Agamenticus, 
and  we  saw  a  large  flock  of  grosbeaks  alight  in 
a  tree;  they  seemed  to  fill  it  full;  and  a  splen 
did  male  in  crimson  sat  on  the  top   twig.      I 
have  never  seen  them  here  before  that  I  remem 
ber-   isn't  it  remarkable  that  they  stay  all  win 
ter? 

Thank  you  for  directing  me  towards  the  Club 

1  To  Bradford  Torrey.    47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,  Jan< 
aary  15,  1892. 


192  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER          [1892 

in  the  Atlantic.  I  am  always  glad  to  find 
anything  of  yours  anywhere.  Do  you  know 
all  about  Kichard  Jefferies?  I  am  just  learn 
ing  about  him.  His  books  are  marvelous,  and 
Walter  Besant's  "Life"  of  him,  or  rather  "Eu 
logy,  "  the  most  delightful  thing  I  have  seen  for 
many  a  day.  So  close  to  nature  he  was,  this 
poor  Jefferies,  and  his  life  too  short  among 
those  things  he  loved  so  deeply.  His  novels  do 
not  amount  to  much,  I  am  told,  but  the  others, 
that  deal  with  out  of  doors,  are  simply  wonder 
ful  and  breathlessly  interesting. 

Do  tell  me  what  you  think  of  this  tragedy  of 
a  string. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  lament  your 1  depart 
ure  ever  since  you  went.  Never  was  there 
such  an  exquisite  summer,  never  such  good 
times  of  Shoals  kinds  and  sorts.  Mr.  William 
Winch  is  here,  and  he  sings  and  sings,  oh,  how 
he  sings!  and  he  says  every  now  and  then, 
"This  is  what  Miss  Benedict  likes,"  before  he 
begins  some  especially  divine  song,  and  then 
we  all  regret  you  are  not  here  to  listen. 

Mr.  Mason  asks  me  to  tell  you  that  he  has 
had  some  work  for  which  he  would  have  given 
much  to  have  your  assistance,  so  that  he  has 
1  To  Evelyn  Benedict.     Shoals,  August  28,  1892. 


1892]          LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  193 

missed  you  not  only  for  reasons  sentimental, 
but  for  reasons  practical.  We  have  just  got 
through  with  the  most  immense  storm  I  ever 
saw  in  the  summer,  and  the  surf  has  been  be 
yond  all  human  description.  People  got  up 
and  came  down  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
thinking  the  island  would  be  cast  away !  They 
are  out  in  the  wet  all  the  time.  Appleton 
Brown  brings  in  a  new  picture  every  five  min 
utes  of  the  boiling  breakers ! !  I  am  expecting 
Mr.  Whittier  presently,  dear  old  man.  He 
said,  "I  want  to  go  once  more  to  the  Shoals." 
I  think  the  very  best  thing  that  came  to  us 
this  summer  was  the  visit  of  Mr.  Alden  ("God 
in  His  World,"  you  know).  He  read  to  us  some 
chapters  of  his  new  book,  "A  Study  of  Death." 
Would  you  had  been  here  to  listen ! 

It  was  delightful  to  see  your l  handwriting  and 
know  you  again  at  home.  Dear  Annie,  has 
not  Death  been  busy  ?  Everybody  gone.  Bry 
ant,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Whittier,  Browning, 
Tennyson!  Even  dear  Sam  Longfellow  ha? 
joined  that  mute  procession,  too.  What  ari 
empty  world  it  grows! 

My  brother  is  better,  thank  Heaven,  —  dowp 

i  To  Annie  Fields.    47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,  October  10. 
1892. 


194  LETTERS   OF  CELT  A   THAXTER          [1892 

stairs,  and  I  hope  out  of  danger.  I  am  go 
ing  to  take  him  out  of  doors  a  little  while 
to-day. 

Yesterday,1  when  my  brother  and  I  were  driv 
ing  through  the  deep  woods,  following  the  track 
of  the  woodcutters  who  are  making  such  car 
nage  among  the  magnificent  pines,  we  saw  a 
bird,  a  wonderful  bird.  Near  an  open  space 
where  the  lumber  was  piled  (for  there  is  a 
raving  sawmill  down  there  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  woods),  on  the  top  rail  of  a  fence,  he 
alighted  a  moment  close  to  us.  He  was  larger 
than  a  robin,  not  so  plump,  but  a  good  deal 
longer;  his  wings  and  tail  were  mottled  black, 
white,  and  gray,  but  his  whole  body  was  the 
most  delicious  red  color,  all  his  feathers  a  kind 
of  crimson  and  crushed-strawberry  color,  most 
vivid  and  delicate.  We  both  thought  his  beak 
was  roundish  and  blunt,  something  like  a  Java 
sparrow.  We  thought  of  crossbill  and  gros 
beak,  but  it  wasn't  a  crossbill,  and  I  never  saw 
a  grosbeak  so  long  and  slender,  and  he  was  all 
over  crimson,  except  his  wings  and  tail.  Now 
what  was  he  ?  Do  tell  us  if  you  can. 

I  wanted  to  tell  you  at  the  time  of  a  flight 
of  blackbirds  we  saw  on  the  21st  of  October. 
*  To  Bradford  Torrey.    Portsmouth,  December  14, 189& 


1892]  LETTERS   OF  CELIA   THAXTER  195 

There  were  thousands  and  thousands  of  them. 
We  stopped  our  horse  on  the  hilltop  and 
watched  them,  darkening  the  sky  above,  beyond 
us,  fully  ten  minutes  before  they  had  all  flown 
over.  I  never  imagined  there  could  be  so 
many  blackbirds  in  the  world.  As  near  as  we 
could  judge,  they  were  flying  northwest,  but 
I  mean  some  time  to  take  a  little  compass  to 
that  hilltop,  to  be  sure.  It  was  a  very  inter 
esting  sight.  I  shall  look  forward  eagerly  to 
your  answer  about  our  beautiful  bird.  He 
was  simply  perfect! 

I  was  so  glad  to  have  your l  letter.  Doubtless 
the  bird  was  a  grosbeak,  though  that  first  one 
was  the  largest  I  have  seen.  We  see  them 
every  day  in  flocks  of  from  five  and  six  to  a 
dozen  or  more.  Yesterday  a  small  flock  filled 
a  little  tree,  and  at  the  top  was  a  crimson  one; 
such  a  bit  of  color  in  the  sun,  against  the  win 
ter  sky !  How  charming  they  are !  Yesterday 
we  explored  a  cart  path  leading  up  to  a  crest 
from  which  we  got  such  a  magnificent  view  of 
Great  Bay  that  we  stopped  the  horse  and 
stayed  there  half  an  hour,  just  to  gaze  at  the 
loveliness  spread  before  us,  and  it  was  all  we 
could  do  to  come  away  at  all.  The  bank 
1  To  Bradford  Torrey.  Portsmouth,  December  31,  1892. 


196  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1892 

sloped  before  us  to  the  water,  and  was  covered 
here  and  there  with  trees,  and  these  were  full 
of  birds.  The  bay  was  calm  as  peace  itself, 
reflecting  everything  upon  its  opposite  coasts, 
and  the  blue  hills  of  Rockingham  County 
dreamed  in  heavenly  sapphire  and  amethyst 
streaked  with  snow  on  the  horizon.  We  started 
up  a  huge  eagle  that  flapped  off  over  our  heads, 
rising  from  some  tall  nut  and  ash  trees  near. 
We  saw  woodpeckers  on  the  tree  trunks,  and 
crows  trotting  about  the  ground.  Chickadees 
made  the  still  air  cheery  with  their  sweet  talk ; 
there  were  grosbeaks,  as  tame  as  city  sparrows, 
and  snowbirds  that  were  not  tame ;  and  a  yel 
low-hammer  flapped  his  wings  like  a  golden 
apparition  from  a  dark  pine.  The  local  name 
for  them  about  here  is  "  harry- wicket ;"  have 
you  heard  it?  I  like  it,  though  I  can't  think 
how  it  originated.  We  saw  a  flock  of  other 
small  birds,  grayish  and  slaty,  that  flew  with 
sweet  quavering  cries;  they  lit  in  an  apple  tree 
and  made  it  alive;  my  brother  said  there  must 
be  as  many  as  seventy-five  in  the  flock.  What 
were  they,  I  wonder !  What  is  a  "  siskin, "  by 
the  way  ?  Out  in  the  stream,  where  the  turning 
tide  was  floating  big  cakes  of  ice  down  the  bay 
(to  the  Piscataqua  River,  just  round  the  point 
to  the  north),  we  saw  companies  of  jet-black 


1893]  LETTERS   OF  CELT  A  THAXTER  197 

crows  and  snow-white  gulls  sitting  together  on 
the  blocks  and  gliding  down  together,  shining 
in  the  sun.  We  saw  a  flock  of  black  ducks,  a 
couple  of  white  geese,  some  oldwives,  and  a 
string  of  sheldrakes;  they  flew  low  and  were 
reflected  in  the  glassy  water.  Now,  wasn't 
that  a  lot  of  birds  to  see  in  a  winter  morning? 
A  variety,  I  mean.  Two  or  three  days  ago 
we  saw  a  tiny  bird  feeding  on  grass-seed  by  the 
wayside.  We  thought  at  first  it  was  a  wren,  it 
was  so  very  small,  but  it  flew  into  a  little  tree 
and  we  saw  it  was  longer,  slenderer,  with  a  long 
tail.  It  was  gray  underneath  and  dark  olive- 
black  on  the  wings  with  bars  of  white.  '  It  did 
not  seem  to  be  afraid,  but  somehow  we  could  n't 
get  a  good  look  at  its  back,  nor  study  its  gen 
eral  aspect  as  we  wished.  We  wondered  what 
that  could  be. 

I  did  read  the  "  Beauty  for  Ashes  "  with  the 
greatest  pleasure,  and  thank  you  much  for  tell 
ing  me.  I  cannot  afford  to  lose  anything  you 
may  write. 

Your l  dear  little  note  just  came,  and  it  makes 
my  heart  ache  for  you,  and  for  myself,  and 
all  of  us.  It  is  so  hard,  my  darling  Sophie, 
BO  cruel  hard,  not  to  see  him  again  here,  not 
1  To  Sophie  Eichberg.  Portsmouth,  February  6,  1893 


198  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER        [1893 

with  these  eyes,  in  the  old  familiar  places,  in 
the  old  way.  Oh,  I  feel  it  so  deeply  myself,  so 
deeply  and  so  sadly,  and  what  must  you  feel! 
I  know  it  all,  all  the  ache  and  sorrow  of  it. 
If  death,  that  change  we  call  death,  meant  the 
end  of  life,  then  indeed  might  despair  settle 
upon  us,  but  it  is  only  change  and  separation 
for  the  time  being ;  desperately  hard  and  sad, 
but  not  forever.  Oh  no,  no,  no  !  a  thousand 
times  no  !  At  our  longest,  we  stay  here  so  lit 
tle  while,  and  then  seek  our  dear  ones  in  that 
selfsame  road  they  have  traveled:  who  shall 
doubt  that  we  find  them,  with  all  their  love  for 
us,  again! 

Thank  you l  for  your  sweet  letter  and  all  your 
kind  suggestions.  I  had  already  begun  to 
"reef"  my  MS.,  and  perceived  at  once,  when  I 
read  it  aloud,  that  it  must  be  cut  ever  so  much 
in  places.  Dear,  you  have  given  me  a  real 
helpful  lift,  because  I  have  been  doing  this 
work  without  a  particle  of  enthusiasm,  in  a 
most  perfunctory  manner,  from  the  bits  of 
notes  I  had  made;  and  my  mind  has  been  so 
saddened  by  deep  shadows  for  many  months, 
somehow  I  had  no  heart  in  it  at  all.  I  am 
hoping,  when  I  go  to  the  Shoals  presently,  to 
l  To  Sarah  Orne  Jewett.  Portsmouth 


1893]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  199 

get  some  of  the  real  flavor  of  the  place  and  the 
work  into  it.  It  does  n't  satisfy  me  one  bit. 
I  began  to  write  the  introductory  chapter  right 
off,  and  shall  I  send  it  to  you  as  you  said  ?  T 
am  so  glad  for  every  bit  of  criticism.  I  was 
so  happy  when  I  wrote  the  Shoals  book  —  it 
wrote  itself.  I  seemed  to  have  very  little  to 
do  with  it  anyway.  But  now  the  shadows  are 
so  long,  and  it  grows  so  lonesome  on  this  earth, 
and  there  is  such  a  chill  where  there  used  to  be 
such  warmth  and  bliss ! 

Oh,  you 1  dear  and  kindest,  wisest  and  helpful- 
est!  I  thought  I  should  remember  every  one 
and  every  word  of  your  suggestions  when  you 
spoke  them,  but,  alas!  I  rack  my  stupid  and 
empty  brain  in  vain  for  most  of  them,  com 
ing  home  to  my  turning,  cleansing,  ripping, 
patching,  fixing-over  dressmaker.  These  petty 
nothings  have  filled  my  head  with  only  cob 
webs,  so  that,  when  I  begin  my  introductory 
chapter,  those  precious  notes  you  gave  me  are 
vanished  and  I  grope  for  them  again  in  vain. 
The  Pinafore  going  down  river  like  a  May-day 
procession  I  remember ;  the  flowers  being  always 
young ;  the  fruits  of  sweet  and  bitter  experience, 
and  the  Greek  thing  I  was  to  ask  Eoland  for, 
1  To  Sarah  One  Jewett.  Portsmouth,  February  5, 1893. 


200  LETTERS  OF  CELIA  THAXTER  [1893 

but  the  others  are  all  gone.  Perhaps  you  may 
remember.  I  am  ashamed  to  be  so  stupid,  but 
so  many  little  cares  come  bothering  me  and  tak 
ing  what  little  sense  I  had.  Pardon  your  loving 

SANDPIPER. 

How  good  you  were  to  copy  for  me,  and  all ! 
All  this  time  and  I  have  not  audibly  and  visi 
bly  thanked  you l  f or  "  Deephaven  " !  but  really 
and  truly  in  my  heart  I  have  thanked  you 
every  day  for  the  lovely  thing.  I  never  did  see 
anything  so  enchanting,  and  the  illustrations! 
every  one  so  charming!  Those  Woodburys 
must  be  wondrous  clever  people.  Karl  says: 
"  Will  you  please  write  to  Miss  Jewett  and  tell 
her  there  never  was  anything  quite  so  delightful 
as  '  The  Only  Kose  '  story?" 

I  am  waiting  for  the  proofs  of  my  small 
"  garden  "  book,  and  I  am  the  tiredest  bird  that 
ever  scratched  for  worms.  Haven't  had  any 
"girl"  since  I  came  from  the  Shoals,  except  a 
little  slip  as  goes  to  school,  and  isn't  much 
more  than  a  rag-baby  anyway.  Have  written  to 
Flower  to  see  if  she  hasn't  some  young  and 
needy  being  who  wants  to  earn  something  and 
have  a  good  home  and  be  befriended.  There 
must  be  plenty  such,  if  one  could  find  them.  I 
l  To  Sarah  One  Jewett.  Portsmouth,  1893. 


1893]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  201 

don't  care  a  bit  whether  she  knows  anything 
or  not:  I  have  infinite  patience  to  teach  any 
honest  creature. 

Don't  you  and  Mary  ever  come  down  to 
Portsmouth  any  more?  Do  come! 

An  l  old  man  in  a  shop  here  the  other  day  said 
to  me:  "I  went  to  bed  real  comfortable  after  I 
had  read  your  poem  about  your  grandchild.  I 
thought  'twas  beautiful."  That  was  so  unex 
pected,  and  pleased  me  so  much,  for  I  did  n't 
know  the  old  fellow  much  and  it  was  so  sur 
prising. 

I  thought  of  ,  who  would  say:  "How 

can  you  say  God  watches  us  with  kindness, 
when  you  think  of.  the  wrongs  done  to  human 
ity,  the  torments  of  Russian  Jews  and  peasants, 
the  agonizing  exile  of  Siberia,  the  plagues,  pes 
tilences,  and  famines,  that  visit  the  earth,  the 
crimes,  miseries,  and  tortures  that  everywhere 
exist?" 

I  know  it  ail,  yet  must  I  sing  my  little  song 
to  my  little  boy  all  the  same. 

I    send    you1    one    of    Farquhar's    catalogues, 

1  To  Rose  Lamb.    Portsmouth,  March  16, 1893. 

2  To  Mrs.  Horace  Lamb.   47  State  St.,  Portsmouth,  March 
25, 1893. 


202  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1893 

marked,  as  I  promised,  and  I  want  to  say  about 
the  marks  that  they  stand  against  "lowers  that 
I  know  about  intimately;  and  the  move  marks 
you  find,  the  more  charming  and  desirable  is  the 
flower.  I  dare  say  you  know  about  them  all, 
and  I  know  there  are  many  that  are  as  beau 
tiful,  perhaps,  which  I  have  not  marked,  but 
these  I  have  indicated  are  all  old  friends  and 
dear,  and  I  am  sure  of  them. 

I  am  sure  you'll  have  tulips  and  peonies 
(don't  forget  the  single  pink  and  white  varie 
ties  of  these)  and  lilies  of  all  kinds,  and  don't 
forget  the  heavenly  perennial  larkspurs,  —  the 
divinest  azure,  rose,  and  saffron  tints,  —  and 
sunflowers  and  hollyhocks  and  single  dahlias 
(superb),  kings'  flowers,  I  call  them,  all  colors; 
and  the  Oriental  poppies,  hardy  and  never  fail 
ing  and  gorgeous  beyond  description ;  perennial 
phloxes,  especially  the  pure  white  and  the  rose 
color;  Hydrangea  grandiflora, — all  these  you 
know ;  and  the  tall  Japanese  anemones  that  are 
heavenly  beautiful.  Dear  me!  I  get  out  of 
breath  with  the  perennials  before  I  think  of 
reaching  the  dear  flower-seeds  for  annuals.  Be 
fore  I  forget  let  me  beg  of  you  to  have  a  bed  of 
Iceland  poppies,  biennials  that  blossom  the  first 
year  from  seed,  white,  orange,  and  gold ;  get  the 
mixed  seed  j  they  are  simply  enchanting.  And 


1893]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  203 

the  Shirley  poppies  are  the  most  radiant  vision, 
of  all  delicate  shades  of  pink,  and  white  just 
flushed  with  rose ;  they  make  the  garden  look  as 
if  the  dawn  had  fallen  into  it  out  of  the  sky. 
And  annual  stocks,  or  gillyflowers,  are  so  satis 
factory,  —  all  colors  and  so  fragrant.  Wall-flow 
ers  are  more  fragrant  than  any  flower  that  grows, 
I  think.  Don't  forget  the  honeysuckles;  the  old 
monthly  honeysuckle  blossoms  all  summer  and  is 
most  beautiful.  Cobaea  Scandens  is  a  splendid, 
rapid  climber,  and  its  flowers  most  interesting 
and  lovely,  large  bells  that  change  from  green  to 
purple.  There  are  so  many  I  cannot  mention 
half.  Do  have  some  rose  campion,  —  rose  of 
heaven,  the  dearest  flower !  —  and  sweet-peas : 
the  loveliest,  most  refined  of  the  pale-pink  kinds 
is  Princess  Beatrice;  the  richest  pink,  Adonis, 
a  fine  grower;  the  best  red,  carmine  invinci 
ble;  the  best  white,  Victoria;  but  all  are  beau 
tiful.  Amid  so  many  splendid  kinds  one  gets 
almost  bewildered.  Don't  forget  the  butterfly, 
white  with  mauve  edge,  a  beauty.  All  sorts  of 
pinks,  except  the  scentless  Chinese,  are  delight 
ful  ;  and  the  Margaret  pinks  are  annuals,  bloom 
ing  first  year  from  seed  sown  in  May.  I  have 
a  boxful  upstairs,  all  nicely  started  in  egg- 
ehells,  to  bloom  in  July. 

I  wish  I  lived  near,  to  see  and  know  about 


204  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER          [1893 

the  lovely  garden  you  will  have.  I  haven't 
begun  to  talk  about  the  flowers  as  I  wish,  but 
I  might  talk  all  day  and  not  have  done.  You 
will  have  splendid  pansies,  I  know;  they  want 
shade,  moisture  (they  must  never  get  dry),  and 
the  richest  stable  manure.  I  am  sure  you  will 
make  a  little  Paradise.  I  wish,  if  there  is  any 
thing  you  think  I  might  tell  you  about  to  help, 
you  would  ask  me.  I  should  be  so  glad  to 
give  of  my  experience,  which,  though  not  large, 
is  very  thorough  as  far  as  it  goes. 

Do  write l  and  tell  me  about  yourselves.  I 
hear  Mr.  Booth  is  better,  at  least  the  newspa 
pers  say  so,  and  that  he  is  going  with  you  to 
Narragansett  Pier.  Alas,  poor  man!  why  can 
not  Fortune  free  him  from  his  captivity  of 
weakness  and  discomfort,  if  not  of  pain,  and 
the  worn-out  body  be  dropped  for  a  fresh  and 
happy  one!  Oh,  I  trust,  when  my  time  comes, 
that  I  may  be  allowed  to  go  in  a  moment. 
Death  is  not  cruel,  but  life  under  such  circum 
stances  is  terrible;  the  long  suffering  with  no 
hope  of  recovery  is  the  misery,  not  the  touch  of 
death  that  opens  the  doors  into  a  fresh,  new 
world. 

Well,   I  want  to  know  about   it  all,   where 
1  To  Ignatius  Grossman.    Shoals,  June  4, 1893. 


1893]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  205 

you  are  and  how  it  is  with  you  beloved  four, 
parents  and  children  dear,  as  well  as  with  the 
poor  grandfather.  Do  write  to  me.  I  only 
hope  all  is  well  with  you. 

Year  l  after  next  I  am  going  to  be  sixty,  and 
I  am  conscious  of  every  bone  in  my  skeleton 
every  time  I  weed  my  garden,  which  is  every 
day  and  pretty  much  all  day.  I  have  to  keep 
out  of  doors  to  keep  my  health,  and  the  time 
in  my  life  has  come  when  I  am  released  from 
housework  and  can  spend  all  the  time  I  want 
to  in  my  garden. 

Oh,  the  birds!  I  do  believe  few  people  enjoy 
them  as  you  and  I  do.  The  song  sparrows 
and  whitethroats  follow  after  me  like  chickens 
when  they  see  me  planting.  The  martins  al 
most  light  on  my  head;  the  humming-birds  do, 
and  tangle  their  little  claws  in  my  hair;  so 
do  the  sparrows.  I  hope  some  lovely  things 
will  come  from  that  packet  of  seeds  for  a  wild 
garden;  there  are  beautiful  perennials  among 
them. 

How  faithful  and  how  kind  you  2  are,  always  to 
remember  me  on  my  birthday !  Your  lovely 

1  To  E.  C.  Hoxie.    Shoals,  June  4, 1893. 

2  To  Feroline  W.  Fox.     Shoals,  July  1, 1893. 


206  LETTERS    OF   CELT  A   THAXTER  [1893 

letter  with  its  sweetly  perfumed  leaves  was  a 
real  pleasure  to  me,  and  I  thank  you  for  it 
very  heartily,  and  thank  you  for  your  interest 
in  me  and  mine.  Karl  is  with  me.  My  two 
youngest  sons  are  in  Kittery.  Koland  and  his 
dear  little  family  moved  down  there  in  the  first 
week  of  June  for  the  summer.  Since  he  has 
had  a  professorship  in  Harvard,  he  has  such 
long  vacations  that  I  cannot  be  grateful  enough. 

The  two  grandchildren,  little  Eliot  and 
Katharine,  are  fascinating  to  their  grandmother ! 
Indeed,  I  don't  think  I  ever  realized  what 
"fun"  was  until  I  became  a  grandmother! 
Isn't  it  delightful? 

I  went  over  to  see  them  the  other  day,  and 
as  Eliot  and  I  were  walking  together  and  gath 
ering  wild  strawberries,  with  the  grass  and 
daisies  and  buttercups  higher  than  the  little 
fellow's  head,  he  said  to  me  suddenly,  apropos 
of  nothing  at  all,  "Are  you  very  old,  granna? " 
"Yes,  dear,"  I  said,  "I  am  very  old."  He 
heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  said,  "I  am  very 
sorry."  "But  why,  dear?"  I  asked.  "Be 
cause,''  he  said,  "I  don't  want  you  to  be  deaded 
before  I  am !  "  He  is  only  four  years  old,  and 
troubling  himself  so  much ! 


1893]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  207 

I  am  pegging  away  hard  on  the  book,  and  I 
want  to  ask  you l  lots  of  things.  All  you  say 
is  so  precious,  dear.  I  have  got  a  little  plan 
of  the  garden,  as  you  suggested,  with  places  of 
everything  marked,  —  a  sort  of  little  map.  I 
have  got  the  whole  thing  about  done,  the  writ 
ing,  but  there  is  much  copying  and  arranging 
of  parts  to  make  a  proper  unity.  I  have  been 
so  ill  since  the  house  closed,  just  about  dead 
with  the  stress  and  bother  of  things  and  peo 
ple,  and  feared  to  slip  back  to  the  hateful  state 
of  three  years  ago.  The  doctor  said,  "You  are 
going  to  have  the  whole  thing  over  again  if  you 
are  not  mighty  careful,"  and  mighty  careful  I 
have  been  and  I  am  better. 

I  loved  "The  Hiltons'  Holiday."  How  you 
have  a  way  of  making  dear,  every-day,  simple 
things,  like  that,  more  precious  and  delightful 
than  all  the  festivals  and  theatres  and  enter 
tainments  that  ever  refreshed  the  soul  of  hu 
manity  !  It  is  so  beautiful  to  do  this  in  such 
an  exquisite  fashion. 

I2  am  so  delighted  to  hear  of  Edwina's  "new 
departure,"  as  it  were;  nothing  could  be  better 

1  To  Sarah  Orne  Jewett.    Shoals,  September  28,  1893. 

2  To  Ignatius    Grossman.     Portsmouth,   November  24, 
1893. 


208  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER          [1893 

than  that  she  should  do  just  this  thing.  No 
one  could  do  it  so  well,  and  I  am  sure  it  will 
be  the  most  interesting  book  imaginable,  and  so 
valuable,  not  only  to  the  present  age,  but  for 
time  to  come.  I  am  glad  she  is  doing  it, 
—  it  is  wise  and  right  and  fitting  that  she 
should.  She  will  reap  a  reward  in  the  grati 
tude  of  the  world,  and  in  the  satisfaction  of 
doing  for  her  wonderful  father  what  no  one 
else  could  do,  and  of  rendering  full  justice  to 
his  genius  and  his  most  marvelous  powers,  and 
all  the  beauty  of  his  character,  which  no  one 
knows  so  well  as  his  dear,  only  child.  I  am 
perfectly  delighted  that  she  is  doing  it,  I  repeat, 
and  congratulate  her  and  you  both  with  utmost 
love. 

How  gladly,  dear  Ignatius,1  would  I  send  you 
"Lilliput  Levee,"  if  I  only  had  it  here!  It 
is  out  at  the  Shoals,  and  might  as  well  be  in 
Kamtschatka  for  any  possibility  of  getting  at  it. 
I  only  bring  a  very  few  books  in  here,  and  I 
will  try  hard  and  see  if  I  can't  get  it  for  you 
in  Boston.  Dear  Ignatius,  if  you  want  the 
loveliest  thing  for  your  children,  get  "Parables 
from  Nature,"  by  Mrs.  Alfred  Gatty,  and  read 
"Not  lost,  but  gone  before,"  to  your  dear  chil- 
1  To  Ignatius  Grossman.  Portsmouth,  January  19,  1894. 


1894]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  209 

dren.  The  heavenliest  thing,  and  as  good  for 
you  as  them.  There  is  an  illustrated  edition, 
and  do  get  it  right  off;  you  and  Edwina  will 
love  it. 

Mrs.  Gatty  was  the  mother  of  Mrs.  Juliana 
Horatio  Ewing,  whose  books  for  children  are 
world-famous, — "Jackanapes,"  and  "Lob-lie- 
by-the-Fire,"  and  "Daddy  Darwin's  Dove 
cote,"  etc.  If  you  haven't  all  her  things,  get 
them  by  all  means  at  once !  But  "  Parables 
from  Nature"  you  must  have,  illustrated  edi 
tion. 

Mrs.  Laura  Howe  Richards's  "Nursery 
Ehymes  "  for  children  are  so  good !  I  dare  say 
you  have  them, — "Little  John  Bottlejohn," 
etc. ;  capital  for  very  little  ones. 

Do  you1  think  this  is  all  right?  Please  tell 
me.2  Keep  this  a  little  secret,  dear  Rose. 

0  Rose,  I  wish  I  could  see  you  again! 
When  I  ever  shall  get  to  town  again  I  don't 
know.  Like  a  limpet  I  am  stuck  fast  to  this 

1  To  Rose  Lamb.     Portsmouth,  January  20,  1894. 

2  Dedication  of  "An  Island  Garden,"  which  Mrs.  Hem- 
enway,  alas!  did  not  live  to  receive:  — 

To  MRS.  MARY  HEMENWAY, 
whose  "  largeness  of  heart  is 
even  as  the  sand  that  is  on 
the  seashore,"  this  little  vol 
ume  is  affectionately  inscribed. 


210  LETTERS    OF    CELIA   THAXTER  [1894 

spot.  Have  you  seen  Prentice  Mulford's 
"White  Cross"  books?  You  would  love  them, 
they  deal  in  such  wonderful,  splendid  things. 

I  'm1  so  glad  I  'm  here  I  don't  know  what  to 
do.  My  Karl  and  I  have  been  at  work  in  the 
garden  cleaning  up  sticks  and  "shack"  and 
stuff,  and  pruning  the  roses  and  investigating, 
and  having  a  beautiful  time ;  and  the  sea  looks 
soft  and  heavenly,  and  the  song  sparrows  are 
singing  like  mad,  and  the  hens  cackling  and  the 
crowers  crowing;  and  here  comes  the  dinner, 
and  I  '11  finish  by  and  by. 

This  morning  the  Pinafore  was  going  to 
Portsmouth,  and  Mr.  Oscar  looked  at  the  ba 
rometer  and  saw  it  had  dropped  all  of  a  sudden, 
way  down.  He  cried  out  to  Ed.  to  be  off  as 
quick  as  he  could,  for  he  knew  that  drop  meant 
an  awful  northwester.  He  hurried  them  off,  and 
Mr.  Karl  would  go,  too,  to  go  to  church,  because 
it  is  Sunday.  They  hadn't  been  gone  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  before  all  the  devils  in  the 
black  place  seemed  to  be  let  loose !  I  never  saw 
it  blow  harder.  A  schooner  came  in  with  both 
masts  blown  right  out  of  her !  and  little  dories 
off  fishing  almost  swamped.  They  fear  Kane  is 
lost;  all  seemed  to  get  in  but  he;  everybody 
l  To  Mina  Berntsen.  Shoals,  March  31,  1894. 


1894]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  211 

thinks  he  is  lost.  We  were  worried  about  the 
Pinafore,  and  Mr.  Oscar  sat  right  down  here 
(telegraph  is  on  the  steward's  desk)  and  asked 
Fisher,  at  Portsmouth  telegraph  station,  to  send 
a  boy  down  to  the  wharf  to  see  if  Pinafore  had 
got  in,  and  answer  came,  "Yes,  I  will  right  off," 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  answer  came  again, 
"  Yes,  the  Pinafore  is  at  the  wharf. "  Just  think 
how  splendid!  for  we  should  have  worried  all 
day  and  all  night  till  the  Pinafore  got  back, 
and  we  were  able  to  hear  she  was  safe  in  ten 
minutes,  soon  as  a  boy  could  be  sent  down  to 
the  Appledore  wharf  and  back  to  find  if  she 
was  in. 

I  wish  you  could  see  our  room.  You  never 
saw  anything  so  splendid !  There  are  five  win 
dows  now,  and  three  of  them  are  big  and  fine 
and  blow  up  and  down  with  your  breath,  and 
the  otners  are  being  fixed ;  and  your  bed  and  my 
bed  to  be  in  the  new  part,  with  gas  over  both, 
and  every  kind  of  convenience.  Do  you  sup 
pose  we  shall  both  die,  having  everything  so 
fine  ?  Perhaps  not.  And  you  are  to  have  the 
old  closet  for  your  things,  and  a  great  big,  new 
one  goes  from  the  door  where  my  bed  used  to 
be  to  the  wall,  and  it  will  hold  everything. 
I  wish  I  could  get  some  patterns  of  figured 
muslin  to  make  some  new  curtains ;  for  we  are 


212  LETTERS   OF   CELIA    THAXTER  [1894 

so  far  out,  Mr.  Cedric's  house,  and  the  Clarks, 
and  Browns,  and  Noyes's  will  have  a  full  view 
of  us,  and  we  've  got  to  look  out  for  curtains. 
We  can  see  the  steamer  coming  into  the  wharf, 
and  the  sunset. 

I  cannot  tell  you x  how  beautiful  it  is  to  be  here, 
and  I  wish  for  you  every  day.  It  is  so  still 
and  heavenly  and  fresh  and  full  of  promise.  I 
work  all  day  long,  mostly  out  of  doors,  and  there 
are  so  many  pleasant  things  to  do.  Not  easy, 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  hard  work,  but  I  love 
it  all;  and  Karl  is  so  good  and  helps  me  with 
the  heaviest,  and  we  have  such  a  good  time 
together. 

The  garden  is  a  wilderness  of  sticks  and 
stalks  and  rubbish  from  last  year,  and  it  is  a 
job  to  begin,  after  pruning  the  roses,  to  clear 
all  this  away,  to  dig  up  the  hollyhock  roots 
that  have  sowed  themselves  outside  and  trans 
plant  in  the  inside  of  the  fence,  to  fork  over 
and  manure  all  the  earth,  etc. 

I  have  my  mother's  big,  sunny  room,  with 
one  opening  out  of  it  for  Karl;  and  the  large 
bay  window  is  full  of  tables,  and  boxes  of  seeds 
that  I  am  watching  with  as  much  delight  as  if  I 
had  never  done  it  before.  It  is  such  a  pleasure, 
l  To  Rose  Lamb.  April  15,  1894. 


1894]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  213 

I  am  busy  every  instant,  so  glad  and  thank 
ful  to  be  here.  No  tongue  can  tell  it;  just  to 
be  here,  it  is  all  I  ask.  Sometimes  I  am  afraid 
I  enjoy  it  too  much,  and  wonder  what  ever 
would  become  of  me  if  I  had  to  be  away. 

There  are  many  storms  and  much  cold 
weather,  but  there  is  plenty  of  work  for  out 
doors  and  in,  and  the  days  are  never  long 
enough. 

I  feared  we  should  get  March  weather  at 
the  wrong  time. 

I  'm  so  sorry  for  all  the  buds  that  must  have 
been  chilled  and  spoiled. 

We l  did  not  get  a  mail  for  more  than  a  fort 
night,  and  it  was  something  prodigious.  Now 
it  is  a  week  since  the  boat  went  to  the  land 
again. 

The  telegraph  told  us  yesterday  that  little 
Cyril  had  died  of  scarlet  fever.  Oh,  what  a 
blow  for  them !  How  crushing !  Such  a  little 
angel  as  he  was,  and  how  they  idolized  him! 
How  I  pity  his  grandmother,  too! 

Little  Cyril,  dancing  on  the  lawn  last  sum 
mer,  looking  like  a  little  winged  angel,  with  his 
exquisite  hair  flying,  —  ah  me !  his  father  and 
mother  can  never  be  the  same  again;  life  can 
l  To  Rose  Lamb.  Shoals,  April  21,  1894. 


214  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  [1894 

never  be  the  same  to  them.  Heaven  keep  lit 
tle,  sweet  and  to  their  worshiping 

father  and  mother.  By  what  a  thread  it  all 
hangs,  dear  Eose,  our  earthly  joy! 

Your *  letter  just  comes,  and  is  a  great  happiness 
to  me,  —  how  great  I  really  cannot  express  to 
you,  and,  to  give  you  any  idea  of  my  pleasure 
in  it,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  devoured 
every  printed  word  of  yours,  since  the  first  time 
I  discovered  you,  with  the  most  entire  sympathy 
and  loving  appreciation.  I  was  perfectly  de 
lighted  last  year  to  find  in  one  of  your  Atlantic 
papers  a  quotation  from  some  verses  of  mine,  — 

Like  a  living  jewel  he  sits  and  sings. 
Do  you  remember  using  it?  I  was  so  proud  I 
wrote  to  Bradford  Torrey  about  it,  asking  him 
if  he  had  the  happiness  of  knowing  you.  I  am 
interested  in  all  you  have  to  say,  and  how  I 
do  wish  I  knew  a  fraction  of  what  you  do  of 
the  birds  I  love  so  much!  They  are  indeed 
most  dear  to  me,  most  charming.  Last  winter 
my  brother  made  sixty  martin-houses  and  put 
them  up,  and  now  we  have  more  than  a  hun 
dred  in  all,  with  a  family  in  each.  Everything 
we  can  do  to  attract  the  birds  we  do,  and  re- 

i  To  Olive  Thome  Miller.    Appledore,  Isle  of  Shoals, 
May  27,  1894. 


1894]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  215 

joice  in  them  with  a  continual  joy.  The  black 
birds  and  kingbirds  and  song  sparrows,  white- 
throats  and  bobolinks,  live  on  the  lawn  half  the 
time,  and  keep  us  in  bliss  with  their  voices  and 
fascinating  behavior.  You  see,  in  a  little  island 
like  this,  we  have  almost  everything  under  our 
eyes,  and  are  brought  into  most  intimate  rela 
tions  with  all  the  various  inhabitants.  We 
won't  have  a  cat  on  the  place.  A  cuckoo  yes 
terday  came  and  devoured  the  eggs  in  the  song 
sparrow's  nest  under  my  window.  What  can 
be  done  under  such  trying  circumstances  as 
these,  I  wonder?  This  year  two  pairs  of  bobo 
links  are  staying,  and  we  breathlessly  hope  they 
are  building  somewhere,  they  have  been  here 
so  long.  All  sorts  of  enchanting  creatures 
come,  just  for  an  hour  or  two  on  favorable  days; 
sometimes  they  will  stay  two  or  three,  or  a 
week,  and  vanish  suddenly  as  they  came.  Last 
week,  when  I  went  early  into  my  garden,  a 
rose-breasted  grosbeak  was  sitting  on  the  fence. 
Oh,  he  was  beautiful  as  a  flower.  I  hardly 
dared  to  breathe,  I  did  not  stir,  and  we  gazed 
at  each  other  fully  five  minutes  before  he  con 
cluded  to  move. 

I  'm  glad  you  found  my  book  worthy. 
We  must  adore  these  things,  our  birds  and 
our  flowers,  all  these  manifestations  of  Divine 


216  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER          [1894 

beauty,  if  we  see  them  at  all;  don't  you  think 
so  ?  What  can  we  say  except  that  their  beauty 
is  "heavenly"  and  "divine"?  I  never  think 
of  the  critics  when  I  speak;  it  is  my  way  of 
praising  the  Lord,  to  adore  his  beautiful  work. 
In  the  poem  you  quoted,  — 

I  stand  and  worship  the  sky  and  the  leaves, 
The  golden  air  and  the  brilliant  sea, 
The  swallow  at  the  eaves,  — 

"  worship  "  is  the  right  word,  it  seems  to  me. 
There  is  such  happiness  in  it! 

I  thank  you  so  much  for  this  dear  letter  of 
yours.  I  treasure  it  among  my  most  precious 
things.  Truly  I  have  an  enthusiasm  for  you, 
and  I  'm  an  old  woman,  almost  sixty,  and  en 
thusiasm  at  sixty  means  more  than  it  does  at 
sixteen,  after  one  has  been  banged  about 
through  this  strange  and  perplexing  life  of  ours 
so  many  years.  I  wish  I  could  see  you. 

With  thanks  and  thanks,  and  a  love  that  has 
always  been  yours, 

I  am  yours  most  truly, 

CELIA  THAXTER. 

MY  VERY  DEAR  FRIEND,  —  I  think  you l  can 
hardly  imagine  the  delight  with  which  I  beheld 
your  familiar  handwriting  again,  just  as  firm 

l  To  Mary  Cowden  Clarke.    Appledore,  Isles  of  Shoals. 


1894]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER  217 

and  clear  and  fine  as  if  six  years  had  not  passed 
over  your  lovely  head  since  I  saw  it  last.  How 
well  I  remember  the  beauty  of  your  soft,  white 
hair,  and  the  dainty  cap  with  a  little  white  satin 
bow  like  a  moonbeam  at  top!  I  thought  I 
never  had  seen  anything  so  fascinating  that  day, 
long  ago,  when  you  welcomed  so  kindly  the 
strangers  within  your  gates.  How  good  you 
were  to  us,  all  of  you!  And  we  have  never 
ceased  to  gratefully  remember  it.  My  brother 
Oscar  is  sitting  near  as  I  write,  and  sends  his 
dear  love  and  says,  "Tell  her  I  don't  want  her 
to  forget  me,"  and  wishes  you  had  told  us  of 
"Portia"  and  "Valeria."  They  were  charm 
ing  !  How  well  I  remember  the  latter,  making 
lace  on  the  crimson  cushion!  and  I  still  have 
the  bough  of  olive  lovely  Portia  gave  me,  pinned 
against  a  piece  of  black  velvet  over  my  writing- 
desk,  where  I  see  it  every  day. 

I  wonder  —  no,  I  am  sure  I  have  not  told  you 
I  am  a  grandmother,  and  my  hair  is  white  as 
yours.  I  have  two  enchanting  grandchildren, 
my  youngest  son  Eoland's  little  ones  (we  called 
him  after  that  Childe  Eoland  who  "to  the  dark 
tower  came  ").  One  is  five  years  old  and  one 
is  three,  and  I  am  the  only  grandparent  they 
have,  and  such  a  good  time  as  I  have  with 
them!  It  can't  be  described!  They  call  me 


218  LETTERS    OF   CELIA   THAXTER  [1894 

"granna."  The  eldest  is  a  blond  boy,  Charles 
Eliot  Thaxter,  and  calls  himself  Laliot,  and  is 
a  born  fascinator.  And  there  is  a  little  sis 
ter,  sweet  as  a  pink-and- white  sweet- pea.  My 
Roland  is  a  professor  of  cryptogamic  botany  at 
Harvard  and  they  all  live  in  Cambridge,  the 
university  town,  where  I  can  fly  to  see  them 
every  now  and  then.  From  the  pretty  little 
town  house  which  holds  these  my  treasures, 
the  children,  peering  from  the  windows  or  at 
their  play  outside,  see  me  coming  afar  off,  and 
raise  such  a  shout  that  the  whole  neighborhood 
turns  smiling  to  look  as  they  tear  up  the  road 
to  meet  me,  and  fling  themselves  breathless  about 
my  knees  and  into  my  arms,  crying,  "Granna, 
granna !  "  Laliot  says,  "  Granna,  I  adore  you !  " 
and  little  Katharine  cries,  "  Granna,  I  love  you 
every  brefff  "  (breath).  It  is  so  beautiful  tc 
find  such  an  unexpected  fountain  of  delight  in 
one's  old  age! 

Then  here  in  my  island  my  other  brother, 
Cedric,  has  three  little  maids,  Ruth,  Margaret, 
and  Barbara,  the  last  only  two  years  old;  and 
they  are  a  great  pleasure,  too,  and  keep  one 
fresh,  as  nothing  does  so  well  as  children.  I 
think. 

I  hear  from  our  dear  Annie  Fields  con 
stantly;  saw  her  not  long  since.  Age  has 


1894]          LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  219 

touched  her  dark  hair  with  gray,  but  she  is 
quite  the  same.  I  mourn  for  your  lovely  gar 
den.  How  I  enjoyed  walking  about  it  with 
your  brother  that  Christmas  Day  of  1880!  I 
have  been  writing  a  book  about  my  island  gar 
den  and  it  is  just  out,  and  as  soon  as  I  can  lay 
my  hands  on  a  copy  I  shall  send  one  to  you, 
within  the  next  week,  I  hope.  It  is  illustrated 
in  color,  and  the  pictures  really  give  you  an 
idea  of  the  place,  the  island  and  the  sea,  and 
the  wealth  of  bloom  and  color,  and  in  one 
picture  I  am  coming  out  of  the  porch  holding 
little  Laliot  by  the  hand.  It  is  a  true  like 
ness  of  my  wilderness  of  bloom.  Dear  friend, 
I  send  most,  most  loving  greetings  to  you  and 
yours,  your  sister,  all. 

I  scribble  this  little  line l  flying,  as  it  were,  to 
beg  you,  when  the  whirl  of  people  passes  and 
tranquillity  settles  once  more  upon  our  little 
world,  to  steal  a  moment  and  slip  down  here 
and  let  us  see  and  know  you;  will  you  not? 
Some  of  us  may  be  slipping  out  of  this  mortal 
state,  and  ~*re  shall  never  know  each  other  in 
this  particular  phase  of  existence,  which  would 
be  a  pity,  I  think. 

l  To  Bradford  Torrey.    Shoals,  July  20, 1894. 


220  LETTERS   OF   CELIA   THAXTER          [1894 

And  so,  indeed,  Celia  Thaxter  slipped  away 
from  those  who  loved  her,  leaving  suddenly 
this  beautiful,  sorrowful  world,  wherein  she 
had  loved  and  rejoiced  and  sorrowed  with 
the  children  of  men.  No  letters,  no  record, 
no  description,  can  express  adequately  the 
richness  and  tenderness  of  her  nature;  but  in 
the  vanishing  of  her  large  vitality  she  has 
drawn  many  a  heart  after  her  to  scan  more 
closely  than  ever  before  the  slight  veil  sway 
ing  between  the  seen  and  the  unseen. 

In  the  quiet  loveliness  of  early  summer, 
and  before  the  tide  of  humanity  swept  down 
upon  Appledore,  she  went  for  the  last  time, 
in  June,  1894,  with  a  small  company  of  in 
timate  friends,  to  revisit  the  different  islands 
and  the  well-known  haunts  most  dear  to 
her.  The  days  were  still  and  sweet,  and 
she  lingered  lovingly  over  the  old  places, 
telling  the  local  incidents  which  occurred  to 
her,  and  touching  the  whole  with  a  fresh 
light.  Perhaps  she  knew  that  it  was  a  fare 
well;  but  if  it  had  been  revealed  to  her,  she 
could  not  have  been  more  tender  and  loving 
in  her  spirit  to  the  life  around  her. 

How  suddenly  it  seemed  at  last  that  her 
days  with  us  were  ended!  She  had  been 
listening  to  music,  had  been  reading  to  her 


1894]  LETTERS   OF   CELIA  THAXTER  221 

little  company,  had  been  delighting  in  one 
of  Appleton  Brown's  new  pictures,  and  then 
she  laid  her  down  to  sleep  for  the  last  time, 
and  flitted  away  from  her  mortality. 

The  burial  was  at  her  island,  on  a  quiet 
afternoon  in  the  late  summer.  Her  parlor, 
in  which  the  body  lay,  was  again  made  radi 
ant,  after  her  own  custom,  with  the  flowers 
from  her  garden,  and  a  bed  of  sweet  bay 
was  prepared  by  her  friends  Appleton  Brown 
and  Childe  Hassam,  on  which  her  form  was 
laid. 

William  Mason  once  more  played  the 
music  from  Schumann  which  she  chiefly 
loved,  and  an  old  friend,  James  De  Norman- 
die,  paid  a  brief  tribute  of  affection,  spoken 
for  all  those  who  surrounded  her.  She  was 
borne  by  her  brothers  and  those  nearest  to 
her  up  to  the  silent  spot  where  her  grave 
was  made. 

The  day  was  still  and  soft,  and  the  veiled 
sun  was  declining  as  the  solemn  procession, 
bearing  flowers,  followed  to  the  sacred  place. 
At  a  respectful  distance  above  stood  a  wide 
ring  of  interested  observers,  but  only  those 
who  knew  her  and  loved  her  best  drew  near. 
After  all  was  done,  and  the  body  was  at  rest 
upon  the  fragrant  bed  prepared  for  it,  the 


12  LETTERS   OF  CELIA  THAXTER  [1894 

young  flower-bearers  brought  their  burdens 
to  cover  her.  The  bright,  tear-stained  faces 
of  those  who  held  up  their  arms  full  of  flow 
ers,  to  be  heaped  upon  the  spot  until  it  be 
came  a  mound  of  blossoms,  allied  the  scene, 
in  beauty  and  simplicity,  to  the  solemn  rites 
of  antiquity. 

It  was  indeed  a  poet's  burial,  but  it  was 
far  more  than  that:  it  was  the  celebration  of 
the  passing  of  a  large  and  beneficent  soul. 


INDEX 


"  ANCIENT  MARINER,"  uncon 
scious  quotation  from,  23. 

Anemones  at  Cannes,  118. 

Appledore,  naming,  97. 

April,  1863,  24. 

Artichoke,  river,  7. 

Artist,  the  homesick,  154. 

"  Asolando,"  quoted,  172. 

Aspasia,  judged  woman  by  her 
handwriting,  22. 

"  Aurora,"  Guide's,  9. 

"  Aurora  Leigh,"  5. 

Babb's  Cove,  30. 

Baiffi,  114. 

Ball  in  Boston,  36. 

Bangs,  Edward,  22. 

Bangs,  Mrs.,  22. 

Beethoven,  42,  43,  93. 

Benedict,  Evelyn,  letter  to,  192. 

Berntsen,  Mina,  letter  to,  210. 

Birds,  a  night  visit  from,  83,  84 ; 
worn  by  women,  146, 172,  175  ; 
at  Appledore,  161-163,  166- 
168,  175,  176,  183-185,  214, 
215;  letters  about,  194,  195- 
197. 

Birds,  enemies  of,  154,  181. 

Birds,  killed  by  lighthouse,  40, 
173. 

Birmingham,  103. 

Bjornson,  B.,  117. 

Blackmore,  R.  D.,  91. 

Boar's  Head,  36. 

Booth,  Edwin,  204. 

Booth,  Edwina,  143,  207. 

Boreas,  brother,  99. 


Bowditch,  Margaret  I.,  letter  to, 

147. 
Braveboat  Harbor,  accident  in, 

147. 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  Mrs.  Gaskell's 

book  about,  8. 
Brown,  Appleton,  paints  picture 

of  Mrs.  Thaxter's  garden,  87 ; 

221. 

Bull,  Mrs.  Ole,  letter  to,  134. 
Butcher-bird,  canary  killed  by, 

147. 
Butterfly  in  winter,  157. 

Cannes,  118,  119. 
Capri,  112,  114. 
Champernowne,  Sir  Arthur,  97, 

98. 
Champernowne,  Sir  Francis,  97, 

98. 
I  Champernownes,  name  Thaxter 

in  old  records  of,  98. 
i  Campagna,  113. 
!  Campanile,  Venice,  109. 
i  Cannon  Point,  31. 
i  Cat  and  sandpipers,  130,  131. 
j  Christiansen,  Anethe,  45-49. 
!  Christiansen,  Ivan,  45,  48. 
Christiansen,  Karen,  45-49. 
Clarke,  Mary  Cowden,  115,  116  ; 

letter  to,  216. 
Clarkes,  the  Cowden,  letter  and 

flowers  from,  72. 
Comet,  133,  134. 
Curtis,  George,  3,  45. 

i  Dana,  Charlotte,  147. 


224 


INDEX 


Dante's  fresco,  114;    his  house, 

114. 

Darrah,  Robert,  funeral  of,  143. 
Dart,  river,  97. 
Dartington,    Thaxter    residence 

at  Kittery  Point,  97. 
Death,   not  dreadful,   142;    joy 

and  comfort  in,  144  ;  is  merely 

change,  183. 
"  Deephaven,"    Miss     Jewett's, 

200. 

De  Normandie,  James,  221. 
Derby,  Lucy,  letter  to,  90. 
Derby,  Richard  H.,  80. 
Dickens,  Charles,  29. 
Dijon,  121. 
"  Dred,"  5. 
Duck  Island,  wreck  on,  C4. 

Eichberg,  Anna,  letters  to,  64, 
75,  76.  See  King. 

Eichberg,  JuliuiL.  song  set  to 
music  by,  61 ;  62,  139 ;  letter 
to,  133  ;  death,  197. 

Eichberg,  Mrs.  Julius,  letter  to, 
124. 

Eichberg,  Sophie,  letter  to,  197. 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  quoted,  190. 

English  lady,  found  Pompeii  ex 
tremely  dull,  120;  and  "Cae 
sar's  statue,"  121. 

Ewing,  Juliana  Horatia,  209. 

Exemplary,  being,  a  great  bore, 4. 

Field,  John,  107. 

Field,  Mrs.,  107,  108. 

Fields,  Annie,  letters  to,  24,  25, 
28,  41,  55,  69,  70,  78,  80,  84,  88, 
91,  93,  96,  97,  98,  100,  105,  111, 
118,  125,  126, 128, 129,  132, 135, 
145,  154,  157,  160,  179,  189, 
193  ;  218. 

Fields,  James  T..  letters  to,  23, 
24,  20,  27,  29,  98,  118. 

Fiske,  John,  151. 

Florence,  trees  at,  113;  114. 

Flowers  seen  from  a  car  window, 
129. 


Folsom,  George,  20,  21,  24. 

Folsom,  Mary,  25. 

"  Forebodings,"  song  set  to  mu 
sic  by  Julius  Eichberg,  61. 

Fox,  Feroline  W.,  letters  to, 
49,  51,  57,  58,  93,  142,  145, 
205. 

Friendship,  a  heavenly  thing, 
28. 

Gatty,  Mrs.  Alfred,  208,  209. 
Gilder's,   R.   W.,    poem     "  The 

New  Day,"  80. 

God's  expression  of  himself,  178. 
Gondolas  at  Venice,  110. 
Gorges,  Sir  Ferdinando,  97. 
Gosling    Road,    in    Newington, 

181. 

Grand  Canal,  Venice,  110. 
"  Grave,  The,"  poem  Hawthorne 

liked  best,  42. 
Griefs  God  sends,  easy  to  bear, 

179. 
Grossman,  Arpad  Sandor,  letter 

to,  63. 
Grossman,  Ignatius,  143  ;  letters 

to,  204,  207,  208. 
"  Guest,  The  Heavenly,"  poem, 

160. 

Handwriting,  woman  judged  by, 

22. 

Hsjns,  adventure  of,  65-68. 
Happiness,  pursuit  of,  compared, 

54. 

Hassam,  Childe,  221. 
Hawk,  hospitality  not  extended 

to,  154. 

Hawthorne,  Miss,  42. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  where  he 

wrote   the   "  Scarlet  Letter," 

42  ;  poem  he  liked  best,  42. 
Headgear  of  Italian  women,  105. 
Headgear,  women's,  horrors  of, 

146,  172,  175. 
Hemenway,  Mary,    "An  Island 

Garden"    dedicated    to,    209 

note. 


INDEX 


225 


Hepworth,  Adaline,  letters  to, 
155,  174,  177,  178. 

Herculaneum,  114. 

Hontvet,  Jolin,  45. 

Hontvet,  Marie,  45-48. 

Housekeepers,  exemplary,  3. 

Howells,  W.  D.,  returns  Mrs. 
Thaxter's  MS.,  71. 

Rowland,  Rachel,  142. 

Hoxie,  Anson,  17,18,44;  letter 
to,  36. 

Hoxie,  Elizabeth  C.,  letters  to,  1, 
3,  8,  10,  14,  19,  43,  44,  205. 

Hoxie,  Nanny,  2,  3,  14,  15 ;  let 
ter  to,  17. 

Human  shuttlecocks  and  battle 
dores,  43. 

Humbert,  King,  112. 

Hunt,  William  M.,  41,  85,  93,  94  ; 
his  tragic  end,  95,  96 ;  Titian's 
busts  like,  110. 

Huxley,  Professor,  61. 

"  Inverted      Torch,     The,"    by 

Edith  M.  Thomas,  180  note. 
Irving,  Henry,  124. 

Jefferies,  Richard,  192. 
Jewett,    Sarah  Orne,    129,   160, 
171 ;  letters  to,  198,  199,  200. 

Kane,  Dr.  E.  K.,  5. 
Keats's  grave,  113. 
Keen,  Capt.  William  Henry,  64, 

66. 
King,    Anna    Eichberg,    letters, 

181,  182.     See  Eichberg. 
Kittery  Point,  97. 

Laighton,    Cedric,   30,    65,    76, 

149,  153,  161,  166,  218. 
Laighton,  Oscar,  31,  33,  49,  65, 

217. 
Lamb,   Mrs.   Horace,   letter   to, 

201. 
Lamb,  Rose,  letters  to,  147,  148, 

149,151,152,163,164,165,201, 

212,  213. 


' '  Land  -  Locked , ' '    poem,    xl  v ; 

christened  by  Lowell,  23. 
Lang,  Mrs.,  letter  to,  131. 
Larcom,  Lucy,  33. 
Lighthouse,  birds  killed  by,  40, 

173. 

Little  Island,  31. 
Londoners'    Island,    wreck    on, 

73-76. 

Lone  Star,  lost,  70. 
"  Lorna    Doone,"    Blackmore's 

novel,  91. 
Lowell,    James    R.,    christened 

Mrs.  Thaxter's  poem   "Land- 
Locked,"  23. 
Lyons,  116,  117,   119;    museum 

at,  120. 

"Mabel  Martin,"  sent  to  Mrs. 
Thaxter,  72. 

Maples  looking  as  if  they  had 
had  a  good  time,  69. 

Margherita,  Queen,  112. 

Marseilles,  119. 

Mason,  William,  151,  152,  164, 
192,  221. 

.Mediterranean,  92,  112. 

Meeting-house  on  Star  Island, 
35. 

"Men  and  Women,"  Brown 
ing's,  9. 

Men,  a  wilderness  of,  50. 

Michael  Angelo's  house,  114; 
relics,  115. 

Milan,  gold  carnations  at,  105 ; 
chronic  opera,  105 ;  female 
headgear,  105 ;  sights  in  the 
streets,  105;  performance  in 
the  cathedral,  106. 

Miller,  Olive  Thome,  letter  to, 
214. 

Mind,  writing  to  a,  169. 

"  Minister's  Wooing,"  killing 
good, 17. 

"  Modern  Painters,"  Ruskin's,  6. 

Mohini,  135,  140,  141. 

Monaco  and  its  rare  blooms,  123. 

Morghen,  Raphael,  engraver,  9. 


226 


INDEX 


Morland,  Captain,  99. 
Mummies  for  fuel,  119. 

Naples,  unspeakable  squalor  of, 
111  ;  compared  with  North 
Street,  Boston,  111 ;  its  only 
cheerful  element,  112 ;  muse 
um  at,  114. 

Nature,  how  to  enjoy,  54. 

North  Street,  Boston,  compared 
with  Naples,  111. 

Nova  Scotian,  a  grateful.  35. 

Novello,  Miss,  115. 

Novello,  Villa,  115. 

November  day  made  warm  and 
bright,  G3. 

Opera,  Italian,  eternal  and 
chronic,  105. 

Padelford,  M.  L.,  letter  to,  156. 

Paine,  Mrs.,  93. 

Paine,  Prof.  J.  K.,  93,  138,  151, 

164,  165. 
Paris,  122,  123. 
Parker,  Theodore,  his  wonderful 

sermon,  6  ;  he  looked  a  god,  7; 

effect  of  his  preaching,  7. 
Parkman,  Miss,  60. 
Parrot,  story  about,  33. 
Pierce,  Elizabeth  D.,  letters  to, 

45,60. 

Pilgrim,  yacht,  32,  74. 
Pinafore,  steamer,  151,  157,  199, 

210,  211. 
Po  Hill,  36. 
Pompeii,  113,  120. 
Portici,  113. 
Posilippo,  114. 
Pozzuoli,  114. 
Priest,  living  image  of  John  G. 

Whittier,  106. 

Renunciation,  meaning  of,  must 

be  learned,  173. 
Resina,  113. 
Rialto,  the,  110. 


Richards,  Laura  H.,  209. 
Richards,  Miss,  of  Boston,  135. 
Rings,  women's,  120. 
Riviera,  118. 

Robbins,  Ellen,  letter  to,  148. 
Rogers,    Clara  Kathleen,  letter 

to,  186. 

Rosa  Salvator,  109. 
Rote  which  bodes  a  storm,  31. 

Sandpipers  and  cat,  130,  131. 
"Scarlet  Letter,"  where  it  waa 

written,  42. 
Schiller,  quoted,  145. 
Science,  murdering  in  the  name 

of,  29. 

Scriptures,  the,  value  of,  141. 
Shakespeare's  sonnets,  beauty  of, 

137,  138,  170. 
Shelley's  grave,  113. 
Shepard,  Miss,  42. 
Shuttlecocks     and    battledores, 

human,  43. 

Silence,  absolute,  148. 
Skunk  cabbage  flower,  adventure 

with,  28. 

Slavery,  the  awful  word,  25. 
Smutty-Nose  Island,  murder  at, 

45-49. 

Song  sparrows  at  sea,  99. 
Star   Island,   old  meeting-house 

on,  35. 

Star  Islander,  an  ancient,  34. 
St.  Marguerite,  Island  of,  118. 
St.  Mark's,  Venice,  109. 
Sunday,  an  enchanting,  25. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  27. 

"  Tent  on  the  Beach,"  27. 

Thaxter,  in  old  Champernowne 
records,  98. 

Thaxter,  Celia,  the  only  record 
of  her  childhood,  1 ;  earliest 
letter,  1  ;  family  and  young 
friends,  2  ;  being  exemplary  a 
great  bore,  4 ;  a  steady  old 
drudge,  4 ;  husband  and  chil 


INDEX 


227 


dren,  6,  5 ;  home  enjoyments, 
5 ;  enthusiasm  for  Dr.  Kane, 
5 ;  admiration  for  Ruskin,  6  ; 
hears  Theodore  Parker  preach, 
6,  7  ;  reads  Charlotte  Bronte's 
books  with  rapture,  8;  "Oh, 
for  your  patience  !  "  9  ;  Brown- 
lug's  "  Men  and  Women,"  9 ; 
the  Whittier  poem,  10;  do 
mestic  trials  and  pleasures,  11, 
12 ;  getting  rid  of  things,  12 ; 

K 's  education,  12 ;  devours 

books  and  peels  squash,  13 ; 
reading  "Quits,"  13;  stabs  of 
conscience,  14;  in  raptures 
with  her  baby,  15;  difficulty 
in  naming  him,  15,  16  ;  a  new 
set  of  silver,  16 ;  wants  hare 
bell  seeds,  17 ;  describes  a 
dreadful  storm,  18  ;  overrun 
with  things  and  people,  19 ; 
had  a  good  time  at  the  island, 
20 ;  a  travel-stained  Cleopatra, 
21  ;  her  india-rubber  pen,  22  ; 
her  neat  letters,  22  ;  beneath 
Aspasia's  notice,  22 ;  first  hint 
of  her  literary  life,  23 ;  un 
conscious  quotation  from  the 
"Ancient  Mariner,"  23;  her 
poem  "Land-Locked," xiv,  23 ; 
love  for  the  sea,  24  ;  delicious 
hours  at  Waltham,  25  ;  dreads 
the  cold,  25 ;  longs  for  the 
sea,  26  ;  rhymes  keep  her  alive, 
26  ;  hates  the  snow,  27  ;  friend 
ship  a  heavenly  thing,  28 ; 
meets  Charles  Dickens,  29; 
winter  life  at  the  Shoals,  30- 
36;  her  parrot,  33,  52;  visit 
from  an  ancient  islander,  34  ; 
bird  friends,  37, 38 ;  moored  on 
Appledore  for  seven  months, 
39,  40  ;  a  happy  time  at  Ames- 
bury,  43  ;  her  scattered  family, 
44;  the  murder  on  Smutty- 
Nose,  45-49  ;  a  fixture  at  the 
Shoals  for  the  winter,  49 ;  de 
votion  to  her  mother,  49  ;  iso 


lation,  50;  spite  against  the 
northwest  wind,  50  ;  misses  her 
boys,  50  ;  winter  quarters,  51  ; 
window  gardens,  51  ;  a  word 
of  kindness  precious,  52  ;  bird 
visitors,  53  ;  gathering  moss, 
53,  54  ;  hates  to  be  without  a 
purpose,  53  ;  how  she  enjoyed 
Nature,  54  ;  a  terrible  disaster, 
55  ;  too  much  alone,  56  ;  com 
munications  open  again,  57 ; 
world  never  so  beautiful  be 
fore,  57 ;  prefers  the  sand 
piper's  call,  57 ;  more  than 
content,  57  ;  a  vexation,  58; 
wrestles  with  art,  58  ;  wants 
to  paint  everyth-'ng,  58,  60  ;  art 
opens  a  new  world,  59  ;  the 
red  leaf,  59  ;  her  room  so  cosy, 
59  ;  summer  has  gone,  60  ;  the 
wildest  wild  night,  60;  her 
birthday,  60  ;  her  mother  bet 
ter,  60  ;  song  "  Forebodings  " 
set  to  music,  61 ;  interested  in 
Tyndall  and  Huxley,  61 ;  the 
desolate  cottage,  62  ;  October 
days,  62  ;  dreads  the  winter, 
63  ;  glows  with  joy,  63  ;  misses 
people  and  things,  63 ;  de 
scribes  wreck  on  Duck  Island, 
64;  going  to  Montpelier,  68; 
ride  among  the  mountains,  68, 
69 ;  nice  people,  69 ;  peace 
from  being  fitly  bonneted,  70  ; 
an  indescribable  storm,  70  ; 
Howells  returns  her  MS.,  71 ; 
must  set  her  constructive  fac 
ulty  to  work,  71  ;  so  blue,  71  ; 
Whittier's  letter  and  gift,  72  ; 
reads  Howells's  story,  72 ; 
grateful  for  a  letter,  72  ;  seek 
ing  seaweed  for  the  Cowden 
Clarkes,  72  ;  in  a  choking 
snowstorm,  73 ;  the  wreck  on 
Londoners',  73-76 ;  afraid  of 
the  beaches,  74,  77  ;  visits  the 
wreck,  73,  77  ;  experiences  in 
an  April  storm,  78,  79  ;  a  pep- 


.228 


INDEX 


per-box  from  the  wreck,  79; 
makes  a  sola  cushion,  79;  wild 
about     Gilder's     "The     New 
Day,"   80;  a  shock,   81;    her 
mother'   continued  illuess,  83  ; 
so  tired,   83;     in   Portsmouth 
over  night,   83;    has  a   night 
visit  from  birds,  83,  84 ;  paints 
a  tile,  84,  85  ;  Hunt's  criticism, 
85;  morning  duties,  85;  Nor 
wegian    treasures,   85;  a  win 
ter's  painting,   8G  ;    Appleton 
Brown's  picture  of  her  garden, 
87;  her  mother's    death,   88; 
and  burial,   90  ;  her  mother's 
plants,     91;     reads     "Lorna 
Doone,"  91 ;  on  her  piazza,  91, 
92 ;  a  heaven-sent  musician,  9? 
a  morning  at  Portsmouth,  9c  , 
removal  to  Kittery  Point,  97  ; 
Dartington,  97  ;  sails  for  Eu 
rope,   98;   how  the    ship  be 
haved  in  a  storm,  98,  99 ;  ex 
periences   during  the  voyage, 
99, 100  ;  reaches  Liverpool,  100 ; 
visits  St.  George's  Hall,  101 ; 
at    the    art    exhibition,    102; 
dines  with  the  captain,  102; 
spends  a  day  on  Chester  wall, 
103 ;  what  Birmingham  looked 
like,   103 ;    in    love   with   the 
English  girls,    104;    at   Strat 
ford,  104  ;  Milan,  105  ;  arrival 
at  Venice,  107  ;  meets  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  John  Field,  107  ;  her  room 
over  the  Grand  Canal,  108  ;  the 
singer,  108;  visits  the  Doges' 
Palace,  108;  St.  Mark's,  109; 
the  Campanile,  109  ;  the  shops, 
109;   the    Palazzo   Giovanelli, 
109 ;  the  gondolas,  110  ;  Titian's 
dear    little    virgin,    110;    im 
pressed  with   busts   of  Titian, 
110  ;    Naples,    111,    112,   114  ; 
decorates  the  graves  of  Keats 
and   Shelley,  113 ;   visits   Mrs. 
Cowden  Clarke  at  Genoa,  115  ; 
the  Villa  Novello,  115,    11G; 


at  Lyons,  116,  117,  119,  120; 
the  English  lady  and  Pompeii, 
120;     story    about     "Caesar's 
statue,"    121  ;    writes    verses 
for     "St.     Nicholas,"      121; 
whirled  like  a  leaf  in  a  hurri 
cane,  122 ;  in  Paris,  122,  123  ; 
a  poor  little  pauper  with  a  cold 
nose,  123-    sees  Ellen  Terry 
and   Irving    in   London,    124; 
returns  home,  124  ;  sends  Mrs. 
Eichberg  a   little  poem,  124  ; 
her     household     jewel,     124; 
paints  a  pitcher  for  Mr.  Ware, 
125 ;  its  Greek  inscription,  126  ; 
"  doings  "   at  home,  126,  127  ; 
her  home  on  fire,  128  ;  a  nar 
row  escape,  129  ;  flowers  seen 
from  a  car  window,  129,  130; 
sandpipers  and  cat,  130,  131 ; 
a  gift    of    roses,   132  ;    some 
thing    the    matter    with    the 
world,  133  ;  views  the  comet, 
133,  134;  story    of    her    pho 
tograph,    135 ;    has    a  lovely, 
hard-working  spring,  135  ;  her 
garden's  enemies,     136,    137 ; 
writes     about     Shakespeare's 
sonnets,   137,   170 ;   her  soul's 
development,  138;  finds  light 
through  music,  139 ;  interested 
in  spirit  communication,  139  ; 
attracted   by  theosophy,  140 ; 
how  truth  came  to  her,  140 ; 
Mohini's    teaching,    140  ;    be 
comes  a  follower    of    Christ, 
141 ;    the    scheme    of    things 
made  clear,  141  ;  reads  in  the 
women's  prison,  142  ;  death  no 
longer  dreadful    to  her,   142 
144 ;  goes  to  a  wedding,   143 
and  to  a  funeral,  143  ;  word* 
of    comfort,    144;    listens    to 
Mohini,  145  ;  on  wearing  birds, 
145,  140,  172,  175 ;  her  canary 
killed  by  a  butcher-bird,  147 ; 
a  beautiful  day,  148  ;  alone  in 
the  big  parlor,  148,  149 ;  hap. 


INDEX 


229 


py  to  be  at  the  island,  149  ;  a 
spring  storm,  150 ;  listens  to 
Mr.  Flaked  lecture,  151 ;  mu- 
p  and  stories,  151  ;  on  her 
p.azza.  151;  tame  birds,  153: 
a  srrai:  i  mother,  154  ;  her  Ports- 
itujutii  home,  155,  156;  illness, 
15<,  159;  a  winter  butterfly, 
15,  ;  at  the  island,  157-159 ; 
has  an  uncertain  feeling,  158, 
182  •-  wrapped  up  in  measure- 
icoo  content,  159  ;  her  version 
of  Tolstoi's  poem,  1GO ;  the 
overworked  girl,  160 ;  writes 
to  Bradford  Torrey  about  the 
birds,  161-163,  166-168,  171, 
172,  175-177,  181,  183-185, 
161,  195-198;  exquisite  days, 
163-165 ;  her  Alma  Tadema, 
164  ;  Bradford  Torrey's  books, 
168,  170;  righting  with  ner 
vous  prostration,  174 :  terribly 
ill,  177  ;  the  autumn  rain,  178 ; 
the  box  of  toads,  179;  Miss 
Thomas's  verses,  180;  dreads 
a  long,  suffering  illness,  182 ; 
feels  the  loss  of  Mr.  Ware,  182  ; 
wants  a  bird  talk  with  Mr. 
Torrey,  185 ;  opinion  of  Whit- 
tier,  185,  186  ;  her  grandchil 
dren,  187-190,  206  ;  her  idea  of 
heaven,  189;  the  tragedy  of 
a  string,  191  ;  an  exquisite 
summer,  192 ;  an  immense 
storm,  193 ;  Mr.  Alden's  visit, 
193  ;  an  empty  world,  193  ;  sees 
a  wonderful  bird,  194  ;  death 
of  Julius  Eichberg,  197 ;  at 
work  on  "  An  Island  Garden," 
198-200 ;  waiting  for  proofs, 
200 ;  a  grateful  old  man,  201  ; 
sends  a  seed  catalogue  to  Mrs. 
Lamb,  201 ;  has  to  keep  out  of 
doors,  205  ;  pegging  away  hard 
on  the  book,  207  ;  dedicates  it 
to  Mrs.  Hemenway,  209  note  ; 
her  garden,  212 ;  enthusiasm 
at  sixty,  216 ;  "  some  of  us 


may  be    slipping  out,"    219; 

last  visit  among  the  islands, 

220;    her  days  ended,  220;  a 

poet's  burial,  221,  222. 
Thaxter,  Charles  Eliot,  154,  187, 

188,  206,  218. 
Thaxter,  John,  2,  9,  11,  20,  22, 

39,  44,  147. 
Thaxter,  Karl,  2,  9,  11,  17,  20, 

22,  39,  40,  44,  45,  60,  65,  127, 

148,  159,  206,  210,  212. 
Thaxter,  Levi,  4,   5,  7,  8,  9,  12, 

13,  15, 16,  20,  21,  24,  29,  36,  39, 

43,  44,  94,  125. 
Thaxter,  Roland,  16 ;    carries  a 

skunk  cabbage  flower  to  school, 

28  ;  126,  154,  199,  206,  218. 
Terry,  Ellen,  124. 
Theosophy,  140. 
Thomas,  Edith  M.,  180. 
Time  frittered  away  by  elegant 

young  ladies,  10. 
Tintoret,  109. 
Titian,   109 ;    his  busts  so    like 

William  Hunt,  110. 
Toads,  a  box  of,  179. 
Torrey,  Bradford,  letters  to,  161, 

162,  166,  168, 169, 170, 171, 175, 

183,  191,194,195,219. 
Truth,  test  of,  141. 
Turner,  Ross,  letter  to,  137. 
Tyndall,  Professor,  59,  61. 

Venice,  107-111. 

Venus  bright  as  a  young  moon, 

31. 

Veronese,  Paul,  109. 
Verses    can    grow    when    prose 

can't,  26. 

Vesuvius,  112,  114. 
Virgin,  Titian's,  110. 

Wagner,  Louis,  45-48. 

Walker's,  E.  D.,  "Reincarna 
tion,"  150. 

Ware,  Mr.,  Mrs.  Thaxter  paints 
a  vase  for,  125  ;  182,  183. 

Weiss,  Carl,  117. 


230 


INDEX 


Weiss,  Henry,  20. 

Weiss,  John,  resigns  ministry  at 

New    Bedford,    16 ;   preached 

like  one  possessed  with  a  spirit 

of  good,  25  ;  letters  to,  59,  61, 

63,68. 

White  Island,  brig  ashore  on,  73. 
Whiting,  Arthur,  148. 
Whiting,  Mrs.  Arthur,  letter  to, 

173,  188. 
Whittier,  John  G.,  72,  117,  132; 

letters  to,  30,  42,  140,  158  ;  his 

genius,  186. 


Wilde,  Hamilton,  107. 
Wilderness  of  men,  50. 
Winch,  William,  192. 
Wind,  the  demoniacal  northwest, 

50. 

Wingate,  C.  E.  L.,  letter  to,  185. 
Women,  birds  worn  by,  146,  172. 
Women,  Italian,  headgear  of.  105. 
Woodbury,  Charles  H.  and  Mar 

cia  O.,  200. 

World,  an  empty,  193. 
World,    something    the    matter 

with,  133. 


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